


The Song of Kerack

by Aubraucity



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: BAMF Jaskier | Dandelion, Ciri is kind of there, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Geralt is a Witcher, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Being an Idiot, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Says "Hmm", Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, Jaskier | Dandelion is a Mess, M/M, Might be important later, Post-Canon Fix-It, Siren Jaskier | Dandelion, The Siren thing actually will make sense, There's a subplot, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, i don't know where i'm going with this, non-canon, obviously
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-29
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:14:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 23,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27781336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aubraucity/pseuds/Aubraucity
Summary: Geralt needs a place to keep Ciri safe until winter. At it looks like Destiny's playing her games again.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 27
Kudos: 192





	1. By the Sighing Sea

Geralt had never been to Kerack before.

The countryside was far more beautiful than any of the inland wildernesses, the pines spaced wide apart, their branches stretching out far above the ground. Silvery-green, fine grass grew in the clearings and there were wildflowers everywhere. Geralt saw yellow dandelions and cornflower and sea daisies growing from the sandy soil. 

Even Roach seemed to like the scenery. The horse snorted contently as she trundled down the path. This was a new mare-he had bid his aging chestnut goodbye the previous winter in favor of a young, dark bay with a lively spring in her step. She had a broader blaze and a stocking on her left forelimb, but more or less was of the same temperament as the retired destrier. 

Kerack was the main city and the name of the small kingdom the two were passing through. It was a verdant, fertile land that grew much of the Cidaris’s grains, and the location of its port at the mouth of the Adalatte River made it one of the wealthiest places on the Continent. 

Geralt was not in the city. He was south, traveling north along the coast. To his left, the endless sea sighed, a vast expanse of shimmering gray waters.

Cirilla stared at it, her pale blue eyes as round as coins, “I’ve never seen the ocean before,” she said in a wondrous tone.

Geralt hummed in response. He had been as equally stunned the first time he had seen it too. “I wasn’t much older than you when I first laid eyes upon it,” he told her, “My mentors sent me to deal with some drowners in the Skellige.”

“What happened then?” The princess asked him.

“I killed them.”

“ _ How? _ ” She pressed.

“...with my sword.” He figured she probably wanted the whole story, “I was fourteen,” he began, “And the Jarl of the Skellige sent a plea for help to Kaer Morhen....and-”

He stopped talking abruptly and pulled back Roach’s reins. The mare obediently stopped. Geralt sat up straight in his saddle and tilted his head back, sniffing. 

“What is it?” Ciri asked as he dismounted the mare and strode over to a copse of trees. On the other side his suspicions were confirmed. There laid the remains of a campfire, and the faint smell of sandalwood and chamomile underneath the salty tang of seawater, “Ser Geralt-”

“I’m not a knight,” he told her for probably the thousandth time in the last week, “And it looks like we’re going to the city, princess.”

They did not travel by road, but instead parallel to it. It was, perhaps, slower going, but Geralt wasn’t keen on using the major trade routes that led to the city. It wasn’t only because he would undoubtedly be stopped by at least a half dozen people either throwing rocks at him or trying to get him to kill a Naiad because it slept with their spouse, but also being a close trade partner with Cintra, Geralt didn’t want to risk Ciri being recognized. 

He even went as far as to dye both his and her hair. He found a river with red clay, and they spent an afternoon smearing it through her hair, letting it dry, and washing it out until she had quite natural-looking auburn locks. Geralt has used ground charcoal as well as the clay, so his was a dull brown color.

“We’ll get there tomorrow,” he told her that night over a dinner of roasted partridge. He knew the princess was used to better meals, but she ate without complaint, which Geralt appreciated. 

“You still haven’t told me why we're going,” She accused after bolting down a mouthful of meat, “What did you find? Was it a monster?”

“You would have known if it was a monster, princess,” Geralt said with a smirk, “No. It looks like a friend of mine was headed there a few days ago. With luck, they might still be there.”

“Yennefer?”

“ _ No, _ ” Geralt growled, “Jaskier.”

“Oh him. He’s the bard who went with you to my mother’s engagement party, right?”

Geralt snorted, “I was the one who went with him. You see, he had...” he realized that what Jaskier had done was probably not appropriate for the girl’s ears, “...there were people there that didn't like him, so I made sure he was safe.”

“My grandmother said that he was a wonderful singer. Is he handsome?” She asked suddenly.

Geralt, who had been drinking from his waterskin, spluttered, “I...I guess so. Actually,” he envisioned the bard’s round blue eyes and sweet smile, “he’s not as handsome as he is pretty. But why do you ask?”

“Most bards are handsome,” Ciri said, “At least the ones that played in the castle were. There was this one that performed on my last name day...I forget his name, but my uncle was  _ convinced  _ he was a siren.”

The Witcher snorted, “You'd have known if it were a siren, trust me.” He watched as the princess yawned, and tossed her a bedroll, “Get some sleep.”

She hesitated, “You’ve not slept for a couple of nights, though. Aren’t you tired?”

Geralt was exhausted, actually, “Someone has to keep watch,” he said. 

“ _ I’ll  _ do it. I’ll do it until the moon is at its height, and then wake you up. If anything happens, I’ll wake you up. I  _ promise. _ ”

The Witcher considered her words for a long moment, and then nodded, “Fine, but  _ at midnight you wake me,  _ got it?”

“Of course!” She chirped, and that was that.

Geralt woke up when the mid-morning light hit his face.

“Fuck.”

“He’s awake!” Someone yelled. He heard several swords unsheath and at least one crossbow being drawn.

“Fuck,” he said again, sitting up. Five soldiers eyed him carefully. Geralt noticed their tunics were yellow and stitched with a stylized blue dolphin and relaxed a little. Only a little. Ciri had been set up atop one of their horses, and was watching him with round, terrified eyes, “What can I do for you?” Geralt offered.

“You’re trespassing on the property of the Royal Family of Kerack. You’ve been found guilty of poaching as well, which means you’ll be whipped,” The lead guard, a captain, produced an oiled cord with a smirk, “We can do this now and have it done and over with, or we can bring you to town and do it in front of everyone else. If you’re wise, I’d think you-”

“I’d like to speak to the King,” Geralt said, “I have that right, don’t I?” The men glanced at each other, “And if you say no and whip me bloody, I’ll be sure to check.”

The captain’s smirk soured, “As you wish. Gather your things. And don’t you  _ dare _ climb onto that horse, or we will kill you.”

Geralt rolled up his bedroll, noting silently that they had taken his sword, but had not thought to pat him down for his knives. Sloppy. If Geralt had wanted to, he could have killed them within the span of a breath. But no. Best to try and find a diplomatic solution.

With a sigh, Geralt then took Roach by the reins and allowed himself to be escorted by the incompetent guards.

The city of Kerack was small, but nicer than any of the cities Geralt typically found work in. Not having shit on the streets was definitely an improvement. 

Also, people were barely giving him a second glance. He was used to stares, but people just eyed him and his dirty gear and greasy brown hair and shrugged him off as a simple traveler. Or maybe a thief, as he was being escorted up toward the castle by almost half a dozen armed guards. 

If the circumstances had been different, the Witcher might have enjoyed the change. But he knew he would have to reveal his identity to the king, else be persecuted as a commoner. He and Ciri would likely be whipped and imprisoned and that was something he would not allow for the sake of the princess. By deciding to reveal who he was, he’d be taking a huge gamble. Did the King, an ally to Cintra, know of Geralt’s child surprise?

They wound up through more and more opulent neighborhoods. Geralt breathed in through his nose, letting the smells flood in. Through the various odors and perfumes, he couldn’t detect the delicate aroma of chamomile and sandalwood, but perhaps once they got closer to the castle…

“Keep up, you lug!” one of the guards poked him with a sword. Geralt growled at him, and the others laughed as he recoiled in fright, “Oh yeah, laugh all you want!” The guard yelled at them, “This fella’s got some devil eyes!”

“Oh please. He’s probably just part elf or something.” One said.

“I was going to say troll. Look at the size of him!”

“Idiots! Them northern Kovirians are said to have freakish eyes and grow into big brutes like this one. All that mining.”

“Do you take me for a miner?” Geralt asked softly.

“I take you for a _ poacher _ ,” the captain said finally, “But lash that tongue once more and I’ll say you were coming to kill the king.”

Geralt glared at him, but didn’t reply. 

“Good.” The captain sneered, “I cannot  _ wait _ to whip you in front of the court, freak. So walk a bit faster, or this girl of yours will start losing fingers.” He gripped Cirilla’s jaw. The girl squirmed under his hold, but it only made him laugh, “But don’t worry. I won’t touch her pretty little face.”

Geralt’s next words were calm, “Continue touching her, and I will gouge out your eyes and fuck your skull.”

“You dare-” The captain reached for his sword.

“What seems to be the problem here?” A sonorous voice asked.

Everyone whirled around to look uphill. Geralt cursed under his breath, and so did a few of the guards.

Standing at the front gates was the king. And he did not look pleased. 


	2. In the Morning Bright

The castle was the crown jewel of the rich trade city.

A rambling estate of dark pine and alabaster and slate and leaded glass, it never really towered over the city, but as it was built atop an escarpment, it looked over the port all the same. 

The gardens had been left to grow out wildflowers, which in Geralt’s opinion looked nicer than any of those carefully cultivated carpets of flowers typically used. Fat bees buzzed around, and the sound of trickling water and crystal wind chimes filled his ears. 

The king had decided to hold court in the gardens, apparently. A latticework pergola sat on a raised stone platform in a courtyard surrounded by yellow buttercups. There was a white wicker chair with a pelt thrown over it, which the King of Kerack promptly sat in and examined Geralt with a frown.

The king was a grizzled man, easily five decades. His red beard was streaked with white, and his pink skin rough from scars. Nonetheless, he exuded strength, and his green eyes sparkled with mischief. 

“So,” he said, “My guards found you hunting in my woods.”

Geralt swept into what he hoped was a passable bow. He was not one for court decorum, and what little he had been taught at Kaer Morhen had been outdated for at least fifty years, “My apologies,” he said once the king instructed him to rise, “I was not aware that it was your land. I and my daughter were traveling into the city, and saw no postings or other indications that it was private land.”

The king sighed, “That seems to be everyone’s excuse of late. I’ve instructed some of my men to patrol the wood and put postings up, but obviously they are quite...lacking,” his gaze bored into the captain’s, who gulped, “No penalty for you, my friend. I can’t have innocent people being punished, or what kind of king would I be?” he chuckled heartily at that, “What is your name, hmm?”

“Sir,” the captain cut in, “Perhaps you didn’t hear his threats made toward us-”

“My name is Geralt of Rivia.” Geralt growled. He wasn’t trying to speak over the guard, but his voice carried all the same. 

The king's eyes widened. Then he burst out laughing. 

“The White Wolf? You can’t be seri…,” his voice dwindled off when Geralt grabbed a bottle from one of his pockets and poured it into his hand before running it through a lock of his hair. The lye soap stripped away the dye, revealing the silver beneath.

Silence hung in the air, thick enough to choke. 

Then the king forced a smile, “What brings you here, Witcher?”

“I’m looking for someone. Viscount Julian Pankratz. I found his trail in your woods, Lord. I thought he might have returned to his home in the city.” Geralt suddenly had an idea, and reached out to rest his hand on Ciri’s shoulder, “Fiona lost her mother. Before she died, the woman begged of me to bring her to her father.” His grip tightened a bit, a warning to the princess to play along.

The king examined Ciri. “She has his eyes” he said finally, “I have not seen or heard of Julian being in the city, Witcher, but I am delighted to meet my niece. My father took Julian in as a ward, and we grew up as brothers. She can stay here, if she likes, and I’ll send a summons for him. As for you, Witcher, I am in your debt for seeing her safely here. My halls are open to you, Geralt of Rivia.”

Geralt bowed again, “thank you.”

“Ferrant! Quit skulking and come here!” A tall, dark haired man stepped out from the trees. The king gave Geralt an apologetic look, “My steward, Ferrant de Lettenhove, will see you both to your chambers. Fiona will need a suite in the coming days, Ferrant.”

The man swept into a deep bow, “As you wish, sire.” Then he looked up at Geralt, his crow-dark eyes accessing him, “Follow me,” he said unctuously, “You must be quite weary from your travels, the both of you. I’ll be sure to inform the servants to prepare baths. Your blade,” he said, handing the sword and sheath to the Witcher, who grunted in thanks and slung it over his shoulder. 

They set off out of the gardens and into the halls of the castle.

Geralt caught the scent while cut through a side passage. Wind whistled above in the vaulted rafters, where holes in the top of the walls allowed for swallows to flutter about.

“Wait here,” he said. The steward Ferrant huffed a sigh as the Witcher shouldered past him, sniffing the air. 

“I have other responsibilities to attend to! Can’t this- _ what are you doing? _ ”

Geralt only hummed in response as he followed the smell. It was fairly fresh, probably only half a day old. But confusing, because if the bard had passed through this hall, his scent should have been present before this point. He couldn’t have just appeared unless he portaled, and Geralt couldn’t detect any trace of the burnt-sugar smell of sorcery.

Ferrant was not amused when the Witcher wound his way through the castle. Jaskier seemed to have traveled out of sight as much as he could, using back staircases, servant passages, and even a rickety lift that Geralt took one look at and decided to use the stairs. 

Finally, Geralt found himself at the door of a locked suite, “These are Lord Pankratz’s chambers,” the steward supplied. 

“Unlock the door.”

“But, that would be  _ highly- _ ” Lettenhove swallowed when Geralt glowered at him, then fumbled with his keys, muttering the whole time.

Jaskier’s chambers were lavishly decorated. Coiling pillars supported the carved stone archways. Gauzy white drapes billowed in from a balcony overlooking the mouth of the river and the sea beyond. A stag pelt laid across the floor at the foot of his featherdown bed.

And on every surface, from the walls, to the low tables, to the decorative moulding-flowers had been painted by a clever hand. Sun-tinged sea daisies amid leaves of green. Shy violettes hidden under the window sills. Gaudy dandelions, stained with saffron paint. Not even the panes of the window had escaped the artist’s brush; sunlight splashed brilliant blues and purples across the polished wood floor.

Geralt took a moment to admire it. He had seen Jaskier sketch, and knew he was the artist. Then he made himself focus. The details came rushing in.

“He spent the night here. Slept on top of the blankets. Took some clothes from the wardrobe,” he said, opening it and looking inside to find it in disarray, “And...what was on that mantle?” Geralt asked, nodding toward the fireplace. 

“I believe his sword, Witcher. A simple rapier he only used when he’d fence in the gardens. You think he took it with him?”

“He did. His smell lingering over there, and it’s not there anymore. And…,” his gaze wandered to the balcony. Jaskier’s scent was only  _ hours  _ old. “...it ends here.” Geralt looked over the edge. “He jumped into the river,” he said in surprise.

“Impossible,” Ferrant scoffed, “The guards would have seen it,” he nodded toward where two men were stationed atop a wall. 

“Your guards missed the fact that I had a half-dozen knives on my person,” Geralt pointed out, “I’m not convinced that they wouldn’t miss it.”

“Does it  _ matter? _ ” The steward said nastily, “It looks like he doesn't want to be found, Witcher. You’ve already succeeded in handing the brat off. Why dig into this further?”

Geralt was lucky that the courier arrived, or else he might have wringed the mouthy man’s neck.

“Geralt of Rivia!” The boy eyed him nervously, “King Belohun apologizes for asking for you so soon after your arrival, but he begs for your assistance!”

“Slavers.”

“I know, I know!” The king was now in his halls, with the full court in attendance. Ladies in fine gowns whispered behind their fans, commenting on his eyes and the grime of the road still clinging to his skin and clothes. The men were watching him sullenly, their hands never far from the ornate swords at their hips, “It’s a far cry from the monsters you typically go after.”

Geralt shook his head at that, “Most monsters are human, actually,” he then turned to the peasant beside him, a skinny man wearing all wool. A shepherd with pale green eyes filmy with tears, “I will bring your son back to you.” The Witcher was careful not to imply that the child would be alive or well, a fact that would sadden a softer man, but it was a necessary detail in his line of work.

“Excellent!” King Belohun clapped his hands, “You must be off at once, then!”

Geralt nodded and exited the hall. After getting instructions from a servant, he found his way to the stables, where Roach stamped impatiently, “They cleaned you up well, didn’t they?” Geralt murmured as he strapped her saddle on, “Just in time for you to get dirty again.”

“Am I to go with you?”

Ciri stood there, watching him.

“Princess, no. You’ll be safe here. The king is an honest man. I’ll only be gone a few days at most.”

“What if they find out who I am?” She asked worriedly.

“Then you run,” the Witcher replied grimly. “You run, and if they catch you, you fight until you can get away again, got it? Here,” he pulled a knife from his belt. It was his favorite one, the first he had gotten when he was a boy, “Use this and stick them with the sharp end.”

“I know how knives work, thank you,” Cirilla replied tartly as she took it. Then: “Thanks.”

“Until I return.” Geralt told her, guiding Roach out from the stable and mounting the mare. Without another word he coaxed her into a trot, and set off on yet another hunt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Thank you SO MUCH for your support! I've never really had more than a couple of people read my work before, and I'm glad to see that some of you are enjoying it! I have good momentum going, and you'll be seeing Chapter Three within the next few days. It's by far my favorite I've written so far (though three isn't a lot) but I think you'll like it!


	3. Dance of Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt doesn't do anything.

They had made it farther than Geralt expected.

The slavers must have been aware that someone would come after their latest victim, because they had set out at the fastest speed they could with their wagon. Geralt cursed as he examined the tracks. He’d hoped this would be a quick, one day mission, but it looked like he’d have to rest Roach during the night.

But, he considered later as he picketed the mare, the slavers would have to rest their horses, too. So that is how he ended up following the trail on foot. Even though Witchers could run at the speed of a lesser man’s sprint for miles, they liked to show up to battle fresh and typically traveled by horse because of this. 

It only took a few hours to find their camp. Geralt lowered into a crouch and crept through the undergrowth, his keen eyes surveying the scene.

There were three slavers. Men who were probably pirates, from the look of them. Work was slim during the spring, so many of the thieves came inland during the warmer months of the year. Two were snoring next to a guttering fire while one stood watch, a bored expression on his face as he sharpened his cutlass, the edges already so fine that they were transparent. Geralt suppressed a snort. While deadly on skin, the sword’s edges would fracture on contact to even the lightest of mail. 

The soon-to-be slaves had been tied around a tree. Geralt saw the shepherd’s boy, obvious in his woolen clothes. There was a young woman as well, who stubbornly remained awake to glare at her captors, and another boy, this one older. 

His eyes wandered toward their wagon, then narrowed when he saw the cage. The Witcher squinted into the night. He glimpsed limp feathers clinging desperately to the bars. Livestock? Geralt crept closer. But no-beneath the silvery brush of pale feathers he saw slate blue satin and creamy chiffon. His gaze lingered on calloused fingertips before drifting to the sweep of dark brown hair beneath a rakish har. Hair the Witcher recognized.

Jaskier stirred, a soft groan escaping his lips. The man sharpening his sword looked up, the rasp of the whetstone in his hand cutting off abruptly. Without delay he hauled himself to his feet and roused the others, “He’s waking up.”

“Just give him more,” one snarled at him, “it’s in the saddlebags.”

“ _ You _ do it. I’m not getting anywhere close to that bastard.” The first sat back down and watched as his companion uttered foul obscenities and made his way over to the wagon.

“I don’t see why we can’t kill him,” the pirate rummaged through a canvas bag and produced a vial, “This essence of nightshade is fucking more expensive than he’s worth.”

“He’s a noble. Someone will offer ransom. And then we’ll be rich.”

“And if they don’t?”

“Then we’ll sell him to one of those whorehouses where them perfumed cunts pay in gold. A lot of ‘em older ones’ would love a pretty boy like him.”

There was a long pause, “he would fetch a high price.” The pirate now approached the cage holding a waterskin. Geralt saw Jaskier’s head turn a fraction toward the man, who leered at him as he unlocked the cage door, “Hello little lark. Want a drink?” He sloshed the waterskin mockingly, which Geralt knew contained the sleep potion, “How about you work for it this time? All you’ll have to do is sit there and be a good-”

There was a flash of silver, and the man suddenly choked, scrabbling at his throat. The others bolted to their feet and watched in horror as blood seeped between his fingers. The pirate’s breath gurgled in his throat, red bubbles frothing at his lips as he fell backward and did not move again. 

Jaskier stood. In his hand was a knife, the blade slick and red, “Gentlemen,” he said, his words still a but slurred from the drugs his system, “I’m afraid there’s been a terrible misunderstanding,” He hopped down from the wagon and plucked up a very ordinary-looking rapier from a pile of supplies. He daintily took it in his hand, “Perhaps we can come to an understanding?” he asked with feigned innocence.

The two remaining pirates approached with their weapons drawn. The bard sighed dramatically at that and slid into a crouch.

One lunged, swinging his sword toward Jaskier’s face. The bard deflected the blow with a delicate clank of steel and stepped aside as the other came at him with an overhead swing. His thin blade was barely visible as it arced, striking the second pirate in the side before he could even lift his blade for a second strike. Scarlet bloomed from a stained blouse.

Jaskier flowed through each step and strike like it was a dance, maneuvering around the campsite without so much as a word. Geralt knew he should have been helping, but he just watched in awe as Jaskier orbited the two in elegant circles, swaying and darting as his blade rang with a promise of blood as it whipped through the air. 

A misstep; an ankle rolling. Jaskier struck like a viper, fast and sure. The blade went into the man’s forehead and back out without a sound. The bard then flipped it around with a flourish of his hand, and swiped at the already bleeding pirate’s exposed belly. His gut spilled out, landing heavily on the ground as his knees buckled. 

The bard stepped back, breathing hard. The other prisoners had been watching, and they smiled as he wiped his blade and walked forward to free them.

Geralt took a deep breath and stepped out from the undergrowth, “Jaskier, you-” he froze as the blade stopped an inch from his chin.

Fierce blue eyes met his, then widened in shock, “Oh  _ shit! _ ” The blade was gone in an instant, dropping down toward the ground, “Geralt! You...you dyed your hair!”

“Oh. Yeah.”

The bard’s nose wrinkled, “The color doesn't suit you,” he seemed to remember that the others were still bound and turned back toward them, using the sword to cut through the ropes, “So. What brought you here? Some kind of sea monster? Don’t agree to anything involving the Kraken. Every Witch who tried-”

“Has died. I know. I was actually sent by the king.” Jaskier froze for a moment at that, which made Geralt pray that the bard hadn’t done something stupid, “to rescue these people,” he supplied. Jaskier didn’t reply to that, leaving Geralt floundering. “I...didn’t know you could fight.”

“I haven’t for a long time,” Jaskier helped the woman up to her feet. She simpered, but he either didn’t notice or care, “I hate killing people.”

So did Geralt, truth be told, but sometimes necessity demanded it. 

“Jaskier. I…”

“Later.” The bard told him. “These people are hungry and exhausted. Truth be told, so am I. How about we get some food and rest, and head back in the morning?”

They burned the bodies and raided the supplies. There was enough hardtack and jerky that everyone managed to fill their bellies before going to sleep.

Geralt took the watch and was surprised when Jaskier settled beside him, lute in his hands. For a long time, they sat without a word, with only the soft twangs of some gentle tune to fill the silence.

“I’m sorry.” Geralt finally said.

“About what?” The music didn’t stop, nor did Jaskier look at the Witcher.

“What I said on that mountain. It was wrong. I was angry and...you were there. Like you’ve always been,” He paused, trying to find the right words, “I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.”

Jaskier nodded, but didn’t answer and Geralt  _ knew _ he had to do better. He reached out and lifted Jaskier’s chin, meeting his eyes. Then the Witcher took a deep breath, and let the words spill out.

“I’ve missed you,” he admitted. The bard’s eyes widened, and within Geralt saw the man he had known for over two decades, “I’ve missed you every single day. I miss how we used to meet after a winter apart and drink ourselves into oblivion in front of the fire in the forest. I miss how you had to find the perfect words to your songs, singing the same line over and over with different words until it sounded right to you. I’ve missed traveling like we did before, and I know that I can’t ask for your forgiveness, but-”

“Geralt.” Jaskier said, his eyes shining, “that’s the most words I have  _ ever  _ heard you say at one time. And  _ holy fuck _ ,” he reached out and took a lock of Geralts hair in his hand, “is that color absolutely  _ horrendous  _ on you-what did you do? Wash it with mud?”

Geralt’s mouth twitched, “ash and clay,” he said, feeling the weight in his chest he had been carrying for three years evaporate. 

“It’s disgusting, Geralt. I’m taking it out  _ right now _ ,” he snatched up Geralt’s wineskin and-ignoring the Witcher’s growl of protest-poured some of its contents onto his hands and began running his soaked fingers through his hair. 

“That was Temerian Whisky,” Geralt grumbled.

“Oh, hush. I can’t take you seriously when it looks like you dyed your hair with horse shit. Consider it the price for my forgiveness.”

“In that case, pour the rest into the dirt.”

Jaskier's hands stilled.

“Geralt. What did you do?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now we're getting somewhere! ;D


	4. In Time They will Learn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nothing going on here....

Attendants led Geralt behind a screened alcove, where his clothes were stripped away. The way that they handled his underclothes made him doubt he’d see them again. He snarled at them when a servant reached for his pendant, and even when she insisted they’d give it back afterward, he’d refused to hand it over. The girl then brushed out his hair with deft fingers, then drenched him with a bucket of lukewarm water. The Witcher spluttered and opened his mouth to tell the attendant to fuck off, but another cascade drowned out the words.

By the time they were done, Geralt was cleaner than he’d ever been. He reached for the robe by the door, but the girl swatted his hand away and gestured for him to go into the main bathing chamber.

He gritted his teeth and stalked out into the main area. It was a board, tiled chamber hot with steam and lit with thousands of lanterns and candles. 

Jaskier was already in one of the pools, perfectly naked beneath the water. He laughed when he saw the Witcher and sipped from a jeweled goblet.

“They didn’t trust you with a sponge, eh?” He quirked an eyebrow, “Come on, I know you’re freezing cold. Get in.”

Geralt huffed, then eased his way down the shallow steps until he was shoulder deep in blissfully warm water. 

In the shards of light dancing around the chamber, Jaskier’s eyes look paler. Scrubbed clean of grime, his skin was alabaster pale and smooth as glass. His gaze on the Witcher’s face was reflective.

“What?” Geralt demanded.

“Nothing,” the bard murmured. Then he smiled. And it was lovely, like the sun peering through an overcast sky, “You are  _ quite _ the specimen, you know.”

“I do know,” Geralt watched as Jaskier snorted, then ducked his head beneath the water. A stream of tiny bubbles burst upward as he resurfaced with a splash and a giggle, “You’re very relaxed.”

“Yes,” the thought seemed to sober him, “it’s probably that stuff those pirates gave me. I still feel kinda loopy.”

Geralt nodded and reached for the twin to the bard’s glass sitting on the edge of the pool, and breathed in the aroma of sweet wine and rare spices. The liquid burst on his tongue, finer than anything he had ever drank.

Jaskier decided to take the opportunity to swim a few lengths. He didn’t paddle at the surface like Geralt would have expected, but instead swam underwater with easy stokes, bobbing up to the surface for air before diving back down like some bizarre sea creature. He stayed under so long at one point that Geralt called his name, and then popped up to splash Geralt before wading over.

“I almost forgot what that was like,” he said happily, “My mum taught me to swim. She loved the sea. She sang a song about it in the Elder Tongue every night when she tucked me in.”

He then opened his mouth and began to sing. It was a song of overwhelming longing. Geralt stared at him as the sound seemed to ripple through him. It certainly made him think of the sea. He imagined what it would feel like to duck his head beneath the surface. Feeling it embrace him. Drifting beneath the waves. His chin touched the water as he closed his eyes and hummed contently.

He breathed in the smell of salt and perfume and titled his head up at the marble pillars twisting toward the cracked green stone of the ceiling before subsiding to the bath. Then the Witcher ducked down, and when the surface of the water closed over his head and the sound cut off, his eyes flew open. 

Jaskier’s song cut off when Geralt burst from the surface, “Are you using  _ Chaos,  _ Jaskier?”

“Um. Not that I know of…?” He blinked rapidly, “I’m pretty sure I’d be aware of that...You know,” he suddenly yawned hugely, “I think I need some sleep.”

“Jaskier-”

“Oh, and my brother wants us at dinner tonight. That’s at dusk, Geralt. Wear something nice. Something red. It’ll look good with your hair.” He hauled himself out of the pool and a servant handed him a towel before he disappeared into an alcove, leaving Geralt to wonder what the fuck just happened. 

He almost liked the clothes.

He had struggled to choose something suitable from the haphazard selection of garments the staff had culled from who knows where. They were all finely made, easily worth more than what he’d make in a season. Dark, jewel-toned velvets, metallic silks. A lack of decorative embroidery that made him wonder if they had been made in a rush specifically for him.

When he selected a dark red brocade tunic, he no longer had any doubts. The shoulders were loose, and the fabric easily accommodated his arm’s movement. The trousers were the same. And yet he still looked quite polished.

He found Jaskier at the bottom of the staircase, sipping wine and talking amiably with a young woman Geralt didn’t recognize. The girl simpered as he dropped into a deep, flattering bow, his lips grazing the back of her hand. 

Geralt walked down the steps, suddenly feeling awkward. He then cleared his throat to let the bard know he was approaching. Jaskier had been spooked more than once by Geralt’s silent tread. 

His gaze cut to the Witcher’s, “Is Fiona coming?”

Damn. Geralt had forgotten about Ciri. He turned around to go back up to the guest wing when she suddenly appeared, a pale wisp in a silvery-lavender gown. Her hair, still auburn, was coiled into a twisting braid. 

Her eyes, still half-feral, eyed them all nervously as she descended. Jaskier smiled kindly at her. 

“Hello Fiona,” he said warmly, offering his free arm, “It’s an absolute blessing to finally meet you, daughter. Has my brother been treating you well?”

Cirilla answered his questions tersely as they made their way through the halls. The woman who Jaskier had been flirting with had tried to couple up with Geralt, but he had growled at her, and now she was nowhere to be found. 

“Geralt,” Jaskier complained as they walked through a deserted passage, “They’re going to think she’s  _ yours _ , all the talking she does.”

“Well, technically she  _ is. _ ” Geralt pointed out, “And she’s been through a lot in the last few weeks, so shut up.”

“ _ She, _ ” Ciri put in, “is right here, you know. And don’t tell him to shut up, Sir Geralt. He’s a much welcome change after weeks of ‘ _ hmm _ ’.”

Jaskier laughed, “I used to say the only two words in his vocabulary were ‘hmm’ and ‘fuck’.”

“Fuck you.”

“At least let me have dinner first.” Geralt’s eyes widened, and Jaskier grinned roguishly before remembering their company, “Er. My apologies, princess.”

They found themselves in a small, but lavish hall. The king sat at the far end of the table.

“Julian!” He immediately stood, “You bastard!” 

Geralt’s hand strayed toward his sword as the man stalked forward, ruddy face and flinty eyed. Jaskier gritted his teeth, but stayed his ground. The two stood face to face.

“Look at you. Wasting away.” Belohun commented. Jaskier rose his eyebrows and raked the king up and down critically before Belohun suddenly roared in laughter and crushed the bard in a hug, “So good to see you, brother. Come, all of you. My cooks didn’t work all day for us to stand here exchanging pleasantries!”

They all settled around a table laden with the finest of delicacies. Servants served hares doused in rich sauce spiced with pine and blackberries. Roasted squash and vegetables. Smoked salmon with cream and dill.

Geralt, when in the company of strangers, typically ate in amounts appropriate to humans, which is to say not enough. But as he scraped his plate clean, Jaskier rolled his eyes and stood up to pile out seconds to the Witcher, who thanked him with a grunt before digging back in. 

“I have to say, Julian,” Belohun’s ruddy face was even redder on account of all the wine he had drank, “I was quite surprised when little Fiona came to my court. Escorted by the famous Witcher of Rivia, no less! How did you two meet?”

Jaskier grinned, “In a bar. He was drinking. I was singing. And then I said, ‘you know, this man looks like he has  _ adventures, _ ’ and I followed him until we got captured by elves. After that,” he shrugged, “I made us money, so I go to stick around.”

“Wait.” Belohun stared at Jaskier, “Julian, you’re the one that wrote that song about tossing coins?” He snorted, “I had to ban it from my court for three years. Almost every single bard that passed through sang it. Is it all true?”

“Er. I took some artistic freedoms, but yeah. Got me a position at Oxenfurt and everything.”

The king chuckled, then raised his cup in a mock toast, “You’ve come far, little brother. To think that a ragged street urchin found half-dead on the rocks could become the most famous bard on the Continent? And travel with a Witcher, no less!” He turned toward Geralt, “I hope he proved as useful a sword as he did a poet.”

“I never did like fighting,” Jaskier’s voice had an edge to it.

“Aye, but you have a talent for it. First time you showed up in the courtyard with your little toadsticker, I thought you’d be rolling in the dirt with the first strike of steel. You didn’t look it, but you ended up being the fastest little shit I’d ever seen,” his glassy eyes found Geralt’s, “he went with me to the Verdish skirmishes ”

“That’s enough, Beloh,” the bard said warningly.

Belohun ignored him and leaned toward Geralt, “We had to take them away from the coast, which was our land. Bastard wore next to no armor, and left without a scratch on him. Our father wanted him to become Master of Arms, but he left for Oxenfurt to write  _ poetry _ , leaving me to waste away here. Elder blood never likes to stay in one place, they say.”

Jaskier’s goblet slammed down on the table, “I said,  _ enough. _ ” His voice was soft and casual, but dangerously so. Everyone was silent for a long moment, until Jaskier pushed his chair away from the table, “I’m going to bed,” he announced. His eyes cut to Geralt’s, and for a moment the Witcher thought he was going to say something, but then he turned on his heel and stalked away.

Ciri looked as uncomfortable as Geralt felt, “Off with you too, pup,” Geralt told her. She nodded gratefully before rising, curtsying to the king before hurrying away. Leaving Geralt alone with Belohun, “Jaskier-Julian, sorry-” The name felt clumsy on Geralt’s tongue, “tends to be more sensitive when he’s tired.”

The king grunted, “I received another request to make of you, if you're interested. Something more suited to one with your...particular talents.” His eyes sparked when Geralt leaned forward, “There’s a ship headed for the Isles leaving the dawn after tomorrow. The queen complains of Sirens delaying their tradeships. I’m sure she pays quite handsomely.”

“Sirens are easy enough to kill,” Geralt said, “I haven’t been to the Skellige in years. No doubt it’s ridden with drowners and kelpie. Thank you,” he stood, “I ought to find Jaskier.”

"Take him with you. Goodness knows he could use it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is kind of a segway to the next chapter, which I think you all will like (wink). I know this is starting out kind of slow, but it's about to pick up. And I'm not sorry about it.


	5. Ocean Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here we go...  
> Not sorry that it's short.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Ocean Eyes by Billie Eilish. It fit the narrative and it's fucking fantastic. This particular cover was inspired by Nix // uuuuuuuukewithme.  
> (https://youtu.be/DdsPyQi1El4.)
> 
> Also, I WILL NOT be posting during the weekend. You'll get one more chapter tomorrow, and have to wait until Monday for Chapter Seven. Of which you won't be disappointed with (I hope).  
> I've been brushing up on Witcher Lore and have some good ideas brewing, so stay tuned!

The bard had never been hard to follow. Not only because his perfume was so distinct and familiar, but also because he made a lot of noise.

Geralt found him in a courtyard remade into a patch of wilderness, a willow tree hanging over a pond full of jewel-bright fish. The bard was sitting by the edge sullenly, humming some vengeful tune.

“Elder blood?” Geralt asked.

“I’ve been twenty-something for three decades. Haven’t you noticed?” 

Geralt hadn’t, really. The seasons had flown by. He barely knew what year it was, “Well, you look like you have Elder blood. The eyes.” He walked over and sat down next to Jaskier, “You never told me, though.”

“You never asked,” Jaskier pointed out. Which was fair.

The two sat in silence for a while. It was quite a beautiful place to be, with the red-smeared sky and the sun crouching low and livid over the distant foothills. The pond's water, crystal clear, shone rippling gold in the last rays of the day.

“I’ve always like the water,” Jaskier murmured, “It’s clear, but also can become any color with the right lights. At high noon during a cloudless day it’s blue and green. Raining, and you’ve got steel. Sunset, and it’s the warmest amber. I wish I could just bottle up the color and paint with it. But you can’t paint with water and sunlight.”

He reached forward and ran his fingers along the lapping surface. 

“Why don’t you come with me?” he stopped at Jaskier’s puzzled expression, “To the Skellige. There’s some trouble there. A possible contract with the queen. It’s a week's voyage. Maybe get us some coin from the sailors, eh?”

For a moment, he thought the bard would refuse. He most certainly hesitated. A sea breeze, soft with mist, passed through the courtyard as Geralt waited. Jaskier closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them to meet the Witcher’s own with a smile.

“When do we leave?”

The sound of strings pulled Geralt from his brooding. Jaskier sat atop a barrel, his fingers tuning the knobs of his lute. Around him, the sailors were gathering, their soft chatter filling the air.

Finally, he stood and swept a hand toward the crowd, fingers splayed.

“Listen!” he ordered, his voice sonorous.

Everyone listened. The only sound was the rippling of the sails and the slap of water on the hull. 

“Listen!” He paced forward slowly, eliciting a series of measured, yet fire-fretted chords, “Listen, and hear the beginning of the longest of dreams. Listen with your ears. Listen, with your eyes, and listen with your heart.”

“Long before the Empire,” he began, “or the Northern Kingdoms. Or even any of the lands we know today, all that was was ruled by two gods. Thule, and Promethea. Thule was a beautiful god, a bright creature shining like polished onyx embedded with diamonds and watched all that occurred within her domain.”

“Promethea was a beauty like no other, but mortal. A bright flame. Where his light fell, the earth was fruitful with joy and plenty. He had a generous heart, so every day he circles around to all the faces of the world, drenching new lands in light and warmth.”

“Thule loved Promethea with a passion, but Promethea was indifferent to her cold eternity. Still, Thule chased him across the heavens, and whenever she caught him she’d touch his hand or steal a kiss, hoping to win his heart.” Jaskier orbited his allotted space, steps so light he almost seemed to be floating, “But Promethea always ran away again, and Thule became bitter and jealous.

“So she decided to kill Promethea. She rode in her glass chariot pulled by dark, frothing beasts as beautiful as they were terrifying. Her power was infinite. She could summon storms to darken the skies and command the wind to her bidding. The ground trembled at her approach, and the lands shivered away from her touch.

“And so the chase began. The two spiraled around each other, Thule fighting for vengeance, Promethea fighting to stay alive a while longer. Promethea was strong, but as the ages passed by, he felt his vitality draining away. Thule was slow and patient, willing to tear him apart fiber by fiber. She only took the most negligible bits of him at one time, but after eons, it was beginning to wear him down, and some day, he knew, the darkness would spread across the land and he would watch as vengeful Thule finally snuffed out the last of his light. And so darkness and death will hold eternal dominion over all.”

A bell chimed, breaking the spell of silence that followed. Jaskier accepted a smattering of applause and coins as he bowed. Then the sailors dispersed to their bedrolls and hammocks, eager for sleep.

“Was that an allegory of the Conjunction of Spheres?” Geralt asked, walking forward.

“Yep,” Jaskier was pocketing the gold, “Wrote it up last winter. This lot seemed the type to enjoy that sort of thing, morbid as it is. We’ll be in Kaer Trolde by this time tomorrow. Maybe I’ll tell it again when we find a tavern. That or Toss a Coin, since you're here.” He looked up with a smirk, “Or maybe something new I’ve been working on. Started it yesterday, actually.”

“Mhm. Let’s hear it then.”

“Er. You...you  _ want _ to hear it..?”

“Not much else to do.”

“Right,” Jaskier frowned thoughtfully as he took up his lute again, “Well, it’s based on my mum’s lullaby. About the ocean. Thought it appropriate for our journey,” he strode up toward the main prow, away from the sleeping quarters, strumming a very simple chord. Geralt trailed behind him, then blinked as the bard began to gently hit the body of his lute, producing a solid  _ thwack _ between each measure, “I-uh-translated some of it from Elder Speech, so the words still might be a bit clumsy,” he sounded oddly shy. 

Geralt only hummed in response. The music continued until finally, Jaskier took a deep breath and began to sing.

“ _ I’ve been watching you _ ,” his voice was soft and sweet, “ _ for some time. Can’t stop staring at those ocean eyes. Burning cities and flaming skies. Golden flares inside those ocean eyes. Those ocean eyes. _ ”

He then closed his eyes and continued on in the Elder speech, his voice going high and lovely, swaying as gently the waves making the ship bob up and down. Geralt didn’t know the words, but he knew what Jaskier was saying was bittersweet. So unlike his usually robust, straightforward pieces. 

Their eyes met. A drowning abyss opened seemed to ensnare Geralt, holding him under and enveloping him with a strong, yet gentle embrace.

“No fair,” Jaskier was still singing as he rocked closer to the Witcher, “You really know how to make me cry, when you give me those ocean eyes. I’m scared,” his breath hitched as the Witcher’s hand drifted toward him, hovering over his collarbone. A crackle of energy seemed to pass between them, “I’ve never fallen from quite this high,” he half-whispered as Geralt’s hand floated higher and came up to brush his cheek, “Falling into your ocean eyes.”

And Geralt kissed him. It was his first time kissing a man, and he hadn’t imagined ever doing so. But this was Jaskier. It really was as simple as tilting his head and pressing his lips against the bard’s. For a moment, time waited. Jaskier’s hands stilled as his lips brushed against the Witcher’s, warm and soft and light as a petal.

Distantly, a lute hit the deck with a light, hollow thud. 

Jaskier deepened the kiss, his lips a promise. Geralt’s hand found his waist and pulled him closer. Their heartbeats thundered side by side. Jaskier slid his palms up the front of Geralt’s coat, finding his collar and tugged him closer. His feather-soft hair whispered across Geralt’s cheek and sent the Witcher’s thoughts whirling away in the dusk. He nudged Jaskier backward until his shoulder’s hit the edge of a mast and he gasped.

Their breath mingled as Geralt drew away, eyes snagging on the bard’s. And for the first time, he saw Jaskier utterly unguarded and unmasked. He saw the deep well of torment pooling behind eyes dark with want. He saw desolation, and desire, and an icy, endless strength.

Geralt captured his lips once more. But the kiss was laced with desperation and something else: a zinging ache that jolted the skin across Geralt’s face and tightened his muscles. Jaskier’s hands glided down his neck and left scorching trails in their wake. A high ringing pierced the Witcher’s ears. Then Jaskier pushed him away.

“No,” he breathed.

A cold sea breeze gusted between them. Geralt stared at the bard. Jaskier was breathing hard, spots of red standing out high on his cheeks. He shuddered, then pushed the spill of dark brown hair off of his brow.

“I’m...I’m sorry,” he said.

Geralt believed him. Because he was, too. 


	6. Echoes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They arrive. Jaskier is charming and sings and then doesn't feel good.

Just as was said, they reached Kaer Trolde the following evening.

Geralt had been avoiding Jaskier. Being a Witcher was helpful for this because he could smell him coming whenever he drew near, whenever intentional or not. But when the ship was moored at the docks and it was time to unload, Geralt could delay it no longer. He returned to their quarters to find Jaskier slinging his bag over his shoulder. 

“There you are!” He said brightly, bouncing over. “I was wondering where you had skulked off to.”

Geralt huffed, then furrowed his brow as the bard’s scent washed over him, “You smell odd.” he said, “New perfume?”

Jaskier rolled his eyes, “broke the bottle this morning. Is it really that bad?”

“Not at all.” It was true, at least to the Witcher. Jaskier smelled of hot sun and salt and the edge of something cold and earthy Geralt could only describe as  _ ocean _ .

“Are you lying?” The bard pouted, “If so, then I’ll need a bath before I do anything else. Can’t very well wax poetry about spilled monster guts if I smell like them.”

There was something off with the gleam in his eyes, “Are you...feeling alright?”

Jaskier gave him a confused look, “I feel fine. Great, actually. Why? Did I accidentally drink one of your monster-hunting potions?”

“Definitely not. You would have suffocated on your own vomit.”

“Then what’s there to worry about? C’mon, Geralt! Let’s go get a drink and a place to sleep on still land before we end up fighting for our lives. It’ll be on me,” he said temptingly, shaking his purse.

Something that Geralt had learned while traveling the Path with Jaskier was that the more decrepit an establishment was, the better people tended to pay. Which was surprising to Geralt until Jaskier had explained it to him, “The rich, they’re very entitled. They see musicians as part of their everyday life as they lounge about with fine wine in their hands and make small talk while holding daggers into each other's backs. The poor, though, have more of an  _ appreciation _ for the arts, and what they save on cheap ale, they tend to give to those whom have given them a taste of a life they’ll likely never reach.”

On the plus side, they got extra gold. Plus peasants tended to have better information than their lords. However, the places they found such work tended to be less than optimal for a good night’s sleep.

So that was how Geralt and Jaskeir found themselves at a shabby little inn called the Angelstern.

The dingy room felt unsafe. A fire smoldered in the hearth, but no one bothered to tend to it. People sat about, nursing their drinks with sullen expressions. A man missing two fingers sat at the far table, eying his twitched stumps. The bartender had a cynical twist to his mouth as he polished a broken glass in his hands. Geralt retreated to a corner, avoiding the stares of the patrons. 

Jaskier leaned against the bar and said, “I come from the mainland with song and joke. Mind if I play in this fine establishment?” The way the man looked at Jaskier made Geralt's hand wander toward when one of his knives lay concealed against his thigh.

“Why would I allow for you to call more mangy louts to this forsaken place?” He asked in an overly loud voice. Geralt sighed as all eyes turned toward the bard.

“I’ll give you a fifth of the cut.” Jaskier said, unperturbed, “Plus a little extra something for the trouble,” he slid some coins onto the bar.

The man brightened and put his glass down to reach for the coins, “Suppose you’ll be wanting a room, then. It’ll be waiting for ye once you’ve finished and paid me my share.”

Jaskier smiled, “Of course.” Then he turned, pulling out his lute with a bright grin, “Good evening, gentleman!” he said vibrantly, “Before I get started telling you the tales of The Witcher, does anyone have any requests?” His smile didn’t falter when everyone stared at him with morose expressions.

The man missing his fingers raised his voice, “why’d we want to hear about a bloody Witcher? Them are just old wive’s tales,” the others murmured in agreement.

Jaskier’s grin only grew wider, “So you haven’t heard the stories of Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf. Friend of Humanity?”

Someone threw a roll at him, “Those bastards are said to be no better than the monsters they eat!”

“You don’t eat monsters! They taste horrendous! And you’d be living in an outhouse for days after, Witcher or no!” Jaskier said hotly. 

There was a long pause, “...And how would you know that?”

The bard strummed his lute, “Care to hear the tale?”

A half dozen drinks later, Geralt approached the bar, head buzzing pleasantly as the full tavern sang boisterously along with Jaskier, “Just one more,” he said to the bartender, who chuckled merrily as he filled Geralt’s tankard, pockets heavy with coin. 

He shook his head in disbelief, “World’s gone mad, I think. Boy brought fairy tales into bars and is coming out with more money than I make in a fortnight.”

“They’re not fairy tales,” Geralt said before taking a long drag of the yeasty beer. It was almost thick enough to chew, but still quite excellent. It had certainly loosened his tongue. “and he’s a minstrel from Oxenfurt. Does this everytime we spend the night at an inn.”

“I saw yeh come in with him. Didn’t know you was travelling together. What’s yer trade, then? Mercenary?”

“Not quite. Heard there was some trouble with Sirens up in the port.”

“Aye. Queen’s holding our shipments. It’s mostly crabs and oysters and the like, but with whaling season coming up right quick, that’s what let’s us afford the inland grain we need for winter. There’s an earldom to whoever kills the bloody things. Is that why you’re here, and why you got those nasty-looking swords, then? Just like the Witcher Pretty Boy over there’s going on about?”

Geralt smirked, “Something like that. Know anything else?”

“Nay.” Just as he said that, Jaskier ended his song, and the rowdy crowd cheered, pressing coins into his hands as he thanked them and wandered over to where Geralt sat, plopping down next to him dramatically before taking the Witcher’s tankard and bolting it down greedily.

“Oh, sod off, Geralt,” Jaskier said when he growled his displeasure and tried to swipe it away from the bard, “I just made us enough gold to last us months on the Path.” he looked up when the barkeep made a loud choking noise, “Oh yes, your share.”

“You’re the Witcher?” He yelped at Geralt, who bit his lip as everyone in the inn looked at them. Geralt waited and listened for the sound of unsheathing blades, or at least angry muttering, but none came. So he looked up at the bartender and gave him a small nod. And was immensely surprised when the man bowed- _ bowed _ \- and served him another drink, this one from an aged bottle of mead, “You don't want that hogwash, m’lord. This here’s the Skellige’s finest reserve, mixed with honey and seagrapes. On the house.”

“I’m not a knight,” Geralt told him. He took a sip of the mead, which was very fine, but too sweet for his liking. He passed it to Jaskier and took back his tankard, “and your beer is more than adequate, and my friend here has a much more refined palette than I. Cheers,” he lifted his tankard and was rewarded with dozens of men cheering boisterously as they raised theirs and drank with him, “Now fuck off. I want some sleep.”

“You don’t want to stay in this rathole, Witcher,” the barkeep said, “there’s plenty of-”

“I’m with the bard.” Geralt said in a voice that left no room for argument.

Their room only had one bed, but that had never stopped them before. Jaskier and Geralt had spent their first months together arguing over who was to sleep on the floor, and when it became clear neither side was willing to give in, they had reached a compromise. 

The rules were simple. Back to back and share the blankets. Geralt removed his armor once the barkeep had left them to be and laid on his side facing the wall. Jaskier typically took some time to relax after singing and to care for his lute, wiping down the strings with a cloth and buffing away fingerprints before carefully setting it aside and sliding into bed.

However, that night, Jaskier had opted to vomit. Geralt woke up an hour or so later to find the bard holding a bucket in his lap as he emptied his stomach. The stench of yeast and bile seared Geralt’s nostrils as he got up and, unsure of what to do next, patted Jaskier’s back as he shivered and whimpered over the bucket.

“I don’t think that mead agreed with me,” he said weakly as Geralt offered him his waterskin.

Geralt considered it a moment and had to agree that he was right, “You’ve had a lot of excitement for one night. How ‘bout you get some sleep.”

As soon as Jaskier tumbled onto the bed, he began to snore loudly, sprawled atop the mattress, flat on his belly. Geralt rolled eyes and nudged him aside for some room. The bard groaned as Geralt laid down, and leaned up against him. Sighing, Geralt closed his eyes.

The next morning he woke up to find himself snuggled up against Jaskier, who was still dead to the world. More alarmingly, his pendant buzzed against his chest.

Geralt shot out of bed, knife in hand and looked around frantically, staring his ears to pick up the sound of screams, or the growls of whatever monster was prowling about.

Behind him, Jaskier rolled out of bed with a grumble, and stumbled over to the basin to douse his head in cold water, “Not feeling too hot,” he mumbled.

“Quiet. Something’s wrong.” Jaskier groaned at that, and just as Geralt walked toward the door, silver sword in hand, his pendant suddenly stilled, “What the fuck.”

“What’s wrong?” Jaskier rasped. Turning, Geralt saw the bard was curled up on the floor, face pale and eyes glassy.

“You’re sick, Jaskier.” The words were slow with surprise, and Geralt had to fight to keep the worry out of his voice. Had he been poisoned? “I’ll...be right back.”

The barkeep yelped as he rounded a corner and found a knife at his throat. His eyes flicked up toward the Witcher’s, whose were narrowed and glowing, the pupils stretched into thin slits. Geralt usually didn’t show this to people, as Witcher’s were already stigmatized for their other mutations. But it did occasionally help with interrogations.

“What was in that mead? Poison?” he snarled.

“No poison, Witcher! Mercy!”

“Not until you tell me why my friend is sick. What’s in the mead?” he pressed his blade tighter against the man’s neck, who unwisely squirmed before yelping as the metal bit his skin, drops of blood beading along its edge.

“I told you! Honey, and seagrapes! Sugar cane, yeast, a bit of saltwater. That’s it, Witcher! Please, have mercy!”

He was telling the truth. Geralt backed away, “What kind of fucking idiot puts saltwater in mead?” He growled, turning away and leaving the man trembling in the hall, “Come on, Jaskier, you just drank seawater, You aren’t dying-” he walked into their room, and cursed.

Jaskier was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hehe. Chapter seven will be posted on Monday, December 7th! Have a good weekend, everyone!


	7. Bloodshed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angst and feels.

The bard was out back.

“I needed some fresh air.”

Geralt nodded, “I left for only a couple of moments and came back to find you gone.”

“Can’t lose me that easily,” Some of his color had returned to his face, and his gaze flicked up to Geralt's’, before he recoiled. “Er. Are...is this a thing?” he pointed up toward his eyes. 

“Fuck. Yeah.” Geralt focused, watching as his surroundings became softer and darker, “You, uh, weren’t supposed to see that.”

“It suits you, though,” Jaskier accepted his arm and gingerly rose to his feet, “So. Are we going to find some Sirens, or perhaps we need to-”

“Oi! Witcher!”

They both turned to see five Skelligers in the mouth of the alley. All of them were holding swords. A standard of a white rose shrouded in flame and set against crimson had been sewn onto their coats. Geralt’s foreboding only grew stronger as he felt his pendant begin buzzing again.

He inclined his head toward them, “How can I help you?” He kept his voice neutral.

“We’s part of the Order. You’re not welcome in our city.”

“Under whose authority?”

“The Church of Eternal Fire, o’ course!” The leader leered at him, “‘tis  _ our  _ sacred duty to cleanse these lands of hellspawn and deviants. O’ which your kind is included.”

“ _ Please. _ In case you haven’t noticed, my  _ kind _ protects the lot of you. You’re only having this conversation here on Skellige because Witchers helped relocate the giants inland past the Blue Mountains so you could settle here. Plus, you guys must be shit at your job, because I picked up magical activity as soon as you approached. Which one of you is it, then?”

The lines deepened on the lead thug’s face, “Clever beast, thinking you can slither away from this by getting us to fight ourselves. No such luck, freak.”

Jaskier gave Geralt a sharp look as he pulled his rapier out from his purse. The bard had sewn its’ sheath to the back of his purse strap.  _ Clever,  _ “Gentlemen,” he said kindly, “we are simply here to help. There really is no need for all of this.” His voice was warm and sweet, contrasting greatly with his intense gaze and razored blade he held with a practiced hand.

However, as soon as one moved to lift his crossbow, the bard launched himself forward, sword singing as it swung. He bashed the man in the face with the hilt and kicked him in the gut at the same time, knocking him backward as he cried in shock and pain. 

Before the men could gather their senses, Geralt raised his sword, bared his teeth at the men, and hissed. “You cannot best us, so leave if you wish to live!”

The men shouted incoherently and scrambled over each other in their haste to escape. 

The leader struggled to his knees. Blood ran from his nose, branching down over his mouth and lips in crimson tendrils. Jaskier strode over to him, sword in hand. The man raised his arms as if to ward off a blow. The bard gazed at him coldly, then swung his blade.

The decapitated truck crumpled to the ground with a puff of dirt, the head landing with a hard  _ thunk.  _ Geralt stared at Jaskier, “What the  _ fuck? _ ” 

The bard wiped his sword on the back of the dead thug’s jerkin. The steel left a dark stain. “Well, we couldn’t keep him around. And I overdid that hit, so he wouldn’t have made it very far on his own-”

“Did it occur to you that we could have left him here and continued on our way?”

Jaskier sheathed his sword, “Would you?”

“That’s completely different. I’m a Witcher, Jaskier. And you-you’re-”

“Part-elf,” the bard reminded him, “and plenty capable of taking care of myself and those I care for. In case you didn’t notice, that crossbow was being raised at  _ you. _ No stranger’s life is more important than yours is to me.”

Geralt slammed his sword back into its sheath, “You could justify any atrocity with that reasoning,” he growled. 

“He was a risk to us both, Geralt. Now he’s not, and I don’t regret it.” He walked around the thugs’s prone form, “Let’s go.”

“We need to talk.”

Jaskier nodded as he ambled along with the Witcher. He had opted to wear his most rugged boots, a pair with steel toes and heels. Which made him taller than Geralt. When Geralt had seen them for the first time, he had told Jaskier that they were impractical and that they’d slow their travel, as the bard would surely complain of aching feet within hours. 

He’d been very wrong. 

“Jaskier, I-the other night on the ship-”

“It wasn’t you, Geralt. If that’s what you’re asking.”

“I shouldn’t have done that. I don’t know why-” He fumbled for the words, “I already fucked things up between us once...I don’t want that to happen again. I really-I missed you.  _ So much. _ And-who else is there for me? Anyone else would turn gray and die while I stayed like  _ this _ .” he gestured down at himself, “Vesemir is the closest a Witcher has ever gotten to dying of old age, and he’s almost three hundred. My mutations are different, though. I stopped aging when I reached my prime.”

“There’s Yennefer.” And certain venom laced the bard’s voice.

“Yennefer is...incompatible. Wanted me to settle down with her. Wanted children. I can’t do that. That’s not...that’s not me. And, whatever we had. I’ve never been with a man before, Jaskier. I was always told that that too was incompatible.”

The bard snorted, “Quite the opposite, actually. On a physical level, I mean,” he amended when Geralt gave him a curious look, “But I get the whole, ‘not settling down’ thing, too. My brother was very right when he said that I don’t like to stay in one place for too long. I might like perfume and soft beds and baths, but I also like the Path. Seeing the world. Bringing my music to others so that they can be happy. Kind of like what you do, yeah?” he smiled over at Geralt, “Travel from place to place helping to improve people’s lives.”

“Dunno if your music is an improvement.”

“Rich, coming from the man who planted a smacker on my lips while I serenaded him with a song about his eyes. Unless it was a ploy to get me to shut up. Which I must add was much more pleasant than being punched in the cock, and-Geralt?” He made a startled noise as the Witcher stalked over to him and seized him by the shoulders, “If you want me to be quiet, you could just-”

“Kiss you?” Geralt didn’t care that they were on a populated road. His hands stroked Jaskier’s downy hair and he watched his pupils suddenly dilate, twin pools of wonder. He leaned in and wrapped his slender arms around the Witcher’s neck. Geralt rested his forehead against the bard’s and watched as his eyes fluttered shut, “If it’s okay with you, I’d really like to right now,” Geralt told him.

Jaskier leaned forward, brushing his lips across Geralt’s, who plummeted into the kiss. He didn’t care that people were passing by and breathing insults. He didn’t care that Jaskier still tasted of blood and sour mead. He fell like he never dared fall before, through a riot of bright, cool, fragile hopes and promises that fluttered like glass wings in his chest. 

Geralt smiled into the blinding promise of what was to come. He smiled against the warmth of Jaskier’s lips, and whispered the oath against his mouth. “It might not be today, or tomorrow. I will wait a thousand years if I have to. But I vow that I will be yours from this day to the end of our days if you would have me.”

Jaskier made a noise of adoration as he cupped Geralt’s face with his soft hands, “You’d take me as I am. And love who I am now and what I’m yet to become?” he whispered. Geralt nodded as he pulled away to see the tears in Jaskier’s eyes, “I love you, Geralt, but…” he trailed off, more tears leaking from beneath his eyelids.

“What is it?”

“Geralt, I-”

A whooping shriek sounded. The two whipped away from each other, each reaching for their swords as they looked up to see something serpentine scream overhead on huge, ragged wing-like fins. 

A siren, with stringy black hair and a gaping mouth full of razored teeth. Geralt switched his sword for his crossbow and watched as it banked sharply before folding its wings and plummeting downward past the trees. Men’s voices rose in alarm before being drowned out by the thing’s shrieks.

Geralt went to run after it, but Jaskier grabbed his arm, “We shouldn’t go after it!” he said, face pinched with fear, “That’s not just a siren, Geralt. That’s an Ekhidna!”

“Silver sword. I have hybrid oil if you want. But I can take care of it. Shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Geralt. If you go up against this one, you  _ will die. _ I can’t let you do this!”

Something in his voice gave the Witcher pause, “How do you know this?”

“I was born here in Skellige,” the words came out in a rush, “A small fishing village in an atoll north of Hindarsfjall. That Ekhidna’s been around for  _ centuries _ , Geralt, and she kills everyone, humans and Witchers alike, that crosses with her. They call her Melusine. Has a cult and everything. She...she killed my father, Geralt. Tore him to pieces, and then ate him. Please,” he pleaded,  _ “Don’t _ .”

Geralt reached out and ran his hand down Jaskier’s cheek, “I have to try.”

Jaskier drew his sword, “Geralt, I don’t want to hurt you. But I will if it means I can save your life.”

“You’re being ridiculous. I don’t believe you.”

He brushed past the bard, then gasped as he felt the cold bite of steel pierce through the back of his leg. Geralt stared wide-eyed, at the tip of the blade as it poked through the muscle an inch above his knee, which buckled when Jaskier drew the sword out. 

“ _ You...stabbed me! _ ” The bard was then at his side with a length of cotton cloth he pulled from his purse, binding it tightly around the wound, which wept red, “ _ Fuck, _ Jaskier!” He yelled when a shadow swept overhead.

Jaskier dragged him over beneath a tree, “You stay here. Apply pressure. It’s nowhere near an artery, so you’ll be fine.”

“Where the fuck are you going?” Geralt clutched his leg with one hand and his pendant with the other, which was vibrating fiercely. He snarled in protest when Jaskier took his silver sword from where the Witcher had dropped it on the ground.

“For a chat,” Jaskier stood tall. In the midday sun, his eyes burned like sulfur fire. He gave Geralt one last apologetic look before running down the hill to where the sirens circled.

Geralt couldn’t see from where he laid, hissing in pain as his leg throbbed which each beat of his heart. The injury would mend within a few hours, but until then he wouldn’t be able to walk. Yet he could hear, and when he heard Jaskier’s voice rise in song, he uttered an oath and tried to stand anyway. The world pitched and he collapsed, darkness falling around him. 

As his consciousness faded, he realized that the sirens had fallen silent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! I'm back! It's finals week, so I might skip a day or two.


	8. No Blue, No Green

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt finds his sword.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Sorry about skipping yesterday! I have my school stuff under control now, so it'll likely be smooth sailing from here (pun totally intended ;D). I should be done with this portion of the story in the new two or three chapters. Then I'm going on a brief hiatus from posting because I'm working over the break and I need to stockpile some content for you guys so I can continue updating regularly. So make sure to bookmark this if you want to know what happens next!

Geralt woke up shivering and sweating.

“Easy.” A soft, delicate hand rested on his shoulder, “Don’t try to sit up.”

Of course, he tried to sit up.

His bedside attendant was a woman who appeared to be in her late twenties-with lush raven hair and gleaming violet eyes. Eyes he remembered. She wore a relatively plain black lace dress and a frown. Her olive skin was rough, with a patch of stitches on her temple as well as a line beneath her lip.

“Looks like we’ve both been through shit,” the Witcher’s voice was hoarse, his throat dry as if he had been gulping down smoke, “It’s good to see you’re...in one piece.”

Yennefer of Vengenberg rolled her amethyst eyes. “I really can’t say the same of you, Witcher. You collapsed outside of the city gates, delirious from blood loss. Do you know where you are?”

He looked around. He was laying in a cot in a cabin of sorts. Shelves lined the walls, heavy with herbs and jars. Rough cedar beams ribbed the ceiling, and the plaster of the walls was bare, “Still in Skellige,” he said as the smell of the ocean wafted in over the aroma of clean linens and sage, “Where is Jaskier?”   


Yennefer wrinkled her delicate nose, “The bard? I thought you had left him.”

“For a time. I...I’m assuming you haven’t seen him then.” His heart sunk as an image of his bard screaming silently while being dragged down into the deep flashed through his head. Geralt blinked to ward off the sudden prickling in his eyes, “How long have I been here?’

“Three days.”

“ _ What?” _

“Witcher’s wounds are hard to heal with chaos,” the sorceress said softly, “but the court mage wanted to rid of any chance of infection. We didn’t know there was necrophage venom in your system. Reckless of you to get bit.”

“Noted.”

“And, well,” she put her hand on Geralt’s forehead and frowned even deeper. Her fingers trembled slightly, “We didn’t know that until we gave you one of your own potions. Your skin started steaming. You nearly died. How did you get hurt this time?

“Mhm,” he ran his tongue across his bottom lip, which was dry and hot, “Jaskier stabbed me.”

“ _ What? _

“I came here to take care of the Sirens, but he wouldn’t let me. Said the one killed his dad, and that I wouldn’t stand a chance against it. I ignored him, and he stabbed me. Then he went off to face them himself, and…” his throat tightened.

Yennefer tilted her head, “I’m so sorry, Geralt.”

“I need to find him. Sirens like to play with their food.” Geralt bit back a groan as he swung his legs off the side of the cox. He was only wearing a pair of breeches, so he fumbled around for his clothes, pleased to find his doublet and trousers had been cleaned and set out for him. 

Yennefer hovered over his shoulder, “Geralt, I don’t think you’re in any shape to go after him.”

“I’ll be fine,” he grunted, pulling on his trousers. “I have to be.”

“Let me help you, then. Tell me where, and I’ll portal you.”

“ _ Fine _ ,” Geralt snapped. “Jaskier said that the siren was called Melusine and that it had a cult following. Is there a place they worship? That’s probably where it nests.”

“Svorlag on Spikeroog,” Yennefer answered, “Locals say there are caves outside of the village. The Chorus Caves, they call them, because one can hear singing at night.”

“Right.” Geralt took up his steel sword, silently cursing Jaskier for taking the silver one. No doubt it was at the bottom of the sea. Snatching up his vial of hybrid oil, he greased his blade with the thick paste, an acrid stench filling the room, “Take me there.”

The Chorus Caves were silent when Geralt stepped through the portal.

He stopped and peered around. It was dim but definitely not dim enough to require a potion to see. Pale light streamed in through cracks in the rock, piercing the velvety stillness with cool light. Adjusting his eyes, Geralt watched as his surrounding sharpened to reveal several passages branching out from the chamber.

“Why are the walls so smooth?” Yennefer asked as the portal closed behind her. Geralt looked at her questioningly, but the sorceress glared at him challengingly before he huffed a sign of resentment.

“Molten rock probably flowed through here at some point,” Geralt answered as he walked up to the mouth of a passage. He growled as Yennefer summoned a light that floated in her hand, a makeshift torch to light the way, “Right. Ocean’s this way. You’re going to want to dim that.”

Yennefer did as they walked down the tunnel, though Geralt noticed that she drew closer to him, the smell of her fear piercing through her perfume.

“Afraid of the dark?” He teased.

“Just what’s in it. Especially when we know that there could be a bloodthirsty monster lurking about.”

“I spare you the wondering.” He stopped and raised his sword as the faint sound of hissing echoed ahead, “It is here. Stay behind me, and no more-” Geralt’s eyes widened as he heard a hoarse voice raise before being drowned out by a snarl.

He moved as fast as he could without his footfalls sounding. Yennefer crept after him but didn’t catch up until Geralt had stopped for a full minute, crouched behind a dislodged rock and staring at the scene before him with disbelieving eyes. 

The sirens all faced away from him-he counted four, three gleaming silver beauties with blonde hair and a fourth, much larger one with a red-streaked tail and a wild mane of black. They were laying around the cave, on the sand, in the shallows or a tide pool, curled around a rock, but all were turned toward a figure propped up against the far wall. A ray of light caught the pale skin of his torso and the smear of red on his gut where he pressed a ruined swath of dove-gray satin. 

One of the sirens hissed in a sibilant tongue. Blue fire eyes cracked open to look at her wearily.

Jaskier’s voice was thin and rough, “You didn’t recognize me.”

“Head-weed changed,” she responded clumsily, “Speak in stupid man-song.”

“It’s actually quite an expressive language. My mate is a Witcher,” he told them, “He kills-” The next word that escaped his lips was slick and sharp and rang in Geralt’s ears. “And it would have scared him if I had suddenly began wailing your words.”

The large siren-the Ekhidna Melusine-spat something in a husky voice. Her tail lashed angrily

“He didn’t tell me we were after you. And it’s not like it wasn’t unjustified!” He coughed, then groaned in pain, “Revenge on the men who killed Second Sister is fine, but attacking everyone who crosses the water is like slaughtering an entire pod because one bull killed a calf.”

Melusine hissed.

“This one’s different. He’s fair. He doesn’t kill unless it’s necessary. He’s stronger than the rest, too. He’ll kill you with one swing of his sword. Which is why you need to lay low. Maybe lure in another Choir, then wait for us to leave.” His eyes cut over to another one of the sirens, who asked him something in a mournful voice, “Yes. Once I stop bleeding, I’m going back. There’s nothing you can do to stop me.”

There was a long silence. During that time, Yennefer caught up to Geralt, who was too shocked to react to her. 

Then suddenly Melusine growled, and the cave filled with the trashing of silver scaled wings. The three smaller sirens swarmed Jaskier, seizing his arms and legs before dragging him to where the water lapped at the sand. Geralt seized his sword and scrambled to his feet. The noise of his boots scrabbling on the rocks made Melusine whirl around. Her face was lovely only for a moment before it parted to reveal a gaping maw of translucent teeth. She snarled at her progeny, who had frozen at the appearance of the Witcher. They then returned to their task, pushing Jaskier’s face into the water.

Melusine lashed her tail, blue eyes gleaming. She was waiting for Geralt to make the first move. Geralt had no time to waste. Brandishing his sword, he raised a hand and pressed a blast of force at the Ekhidna, who screamed as she hit the cave wall with a solid  _ thud  _ and a crackling noise as one of her wings was caught between the stone and her muscular coils. She fell heavily but immediately rose again, her claws digging into the sand as she dropped into a crouch.

She screamed again as a gleaming web of light surrounded her, holding her in place. Behind Geralt, Yennefer’s arms trembled as she held the siren down with magic, “Hurry!” the sorceress gasped, “I can’t hold it for long!”

Geralt dashed over to where the sirens were drowning Jaskier. They hissed at him, but he raised a hand in a placating gesture, “I don’t want to hurt you,” he told them, “let him go.”

They hesitated. Beneath their grip, Jaskier’s thrashes were getting weaker.

“ _ Please _ ,” Geralt ground out, “He’s my mate. I need to heal him. Move now, or I will kill you.”

The sirens backed away as he approached, letting go of the bard, who floated facedown in the shallows. Geralt rushed forward, splashing noisily as he snatched up Jaskier, pulling him up into his arms. Jaskier immediately cried out, coughing up salt water and gasping for air as Geralt waded toward the sand as fast as he could. 

Yennefer’s spell broke as Geralt’s knees hit the beach. Distantly, he heard Melusine screech in rage, but the Witcher’s attention was focused on his Jaskier, whose eyes were wide and bloodshot as he choked and sobbed, his entire body seizing.

The shadow of crookedly outstretched wings loomed over the two. Melusine's jaws gaped wide as she posed to strike, then opened even wider as she gasped. Yennefer held Geralt’s silver sword with trembling arms. A line of red welled in Melusine’s midsection before her head and upper torso slid backward, severed from the rest of her body. She was dead before either parts of her body collapsed to the ground.

The cave was silent, other than the heaving of the water and Jaskier’s ragged breaths.

“You absolute idiot.” Geralt growled at him, “What the  _ fuck  _ were you thinking?”

The bard’s face fluttered into a weak smile, “Thought I could negotiate things peacefully,” he rasped. 

“And now there’s a hole in your gut. And-” Geralt stopped and stared when he saw that the wound had scabbed over, red and raw, but scabbed all the same, “what-”

“I was buying myself some time. Killed a fish and bled it. Hid it in my shirt.” His eyes traveled over to Melusine’s body, “you killed her.”

“Yennefer did, actually.”

“Good. She was a bad influence.” His eyes pulsed with a fiery glow as they rolled over to where the other sirens waited, their heads peeking out from beneath the surface, “You should leave. The girls will want to mourn their mother. It’s not a healthy thing to hear.”

“What about you?”

Jaskier smiled thinly as one of the sirens hissed in protest, “I’m immune. And they want me to stay a bit longer. They won’t hurt me.”

“You have much to tell me,” Geralt said to him, “I’ll be waiting.”


	9. Mourning as Night Falls

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier and the sirens mourn. Yennefer's kind of a bitch, ngl. Geralt is a soft boi with his bard.  
> Sorry it's short.   
> On a completely unrelated note, subscribe to my YouTube Channel. Aubraucity! I will be posting a walkthrough of Cyberpunk 2077, and I will be very sad if I spent $60.00 on a game if no one watches it.

A breeze whispered through the trees, and Yennefer slept.

Geralt sat before a miserable little fire, warming the gristly scraps of the rabbit Yennefer had refused to eat. He had told himself he would wait until Jaskier returned, then eat his fill at the inn later on in the day, but it became impossible to ignore the growling of his stomach. He couldn’t leave Yennefer unprotected while she slept to go hunt, either.

The two had trudged along a road to the remains of an old watchtower. The midday sun had crept low over the mountains, deepening the blue of the sky and staining the clouds with marigold. The grasses had given way to tall cedars that obscured Geralt’s view of the ocean beyond. 

Yennefer had insisted that the Witcher eat first, so he took a couple of bites before passing it to the sorceress, who devoured the meat, grease dripping down her chin. Then she went to sleep, curled in a patch of thick grass. 

The sky was stained with fiery orange and pink when it began. A sweet, eerie strain that echoed and rippled, seeming the reverberate from the ground itself. 

“Geralt?” Yennefer’s voice was alarmed, “What is it?”

The Witcher looked over at her, “They’re mourning.” he said. Yennefer sat up, pushing her mussed hair away from her face. He clenched his hand around the stick he was using as a spit and almost tried to hide it, but it was too late. The sorceress’s eyes had already narrowed on the meager scraps of meat.

“I told you to have your fill,” she growled, drowsiness dissolving into exasperation. “Why didn’t you listen to me?”

“You’re weak from harnessing chaos. You needed it more.”

“You used chaos as well.” Yennefer retorted.

She cut her gaze over to him. The clouds overhead threw pennants of light and shadow across her face. Geralt then looked away, and the silence stretched between them, brittle as a sword honed too sharp.

“You’re not Skellege’s court mage, and yet you’re here,” Geralt muttered, trying to find something to ease the tension, “I’ve seen you use chaos before, too. What you did back there shouldn’t have wiped you out, yet here we are. What happened?”

Yennefer gusted a sigh. “It’s not much of a story. I used too much chaos and almost died. I ended up on Skellige and was brought to the court mage, who is allowing me to stay and assist him until I recover.  _ Oh _ ,” she said as another voice joined the first, the sound amplifying as they met in stunning harmony, “It’s lucky I’m warded against Charm. I’m guessing that’s an innate Witcher ability as well, by your relative sanity.”

Geralt crunched on a bit of rabbit as he listened. Another voice joined the chorus, which rippled and rose and fell like waves lapping at the shore. It was haunting and beautiful and deadly, but it only grew stronger when yet another cry spilled forth, timid at first, then more confident. The melody was dark and sweet, curling desolate through the air. 

Jaskier. Geralt’s head shot up.

“No.” Yennefer’s voice was full of warning, “Geralt, you need to give them space. I do not know how or why, but your bard seems to be perfectly fine. He is  _ fine, _ ” she repeated sternly as the Witcher surged to his feet.

“For  _ now.  _ Let’s go.”

“We should-”

“We won’t crash their party,” Geralt promised, “But we need to be close enough to save Jaskier if need be.”

They settled on the cliffs over the caverns below and tried to ignore the wild, undulating cries of the sirens.

The sun set to the east, a spectacular conflagration. However, when the last of its rays vanished over the horizon, the siren’s singing trailed away until all left was a soft, low note that too faded off.

“Look,” Yennefer leaned forward.

Geralt looked. Four figures were walking toward the water, dragging a fifth and much larger form with them. Melusine. It was three naked blonde girls and Jaskier, who only wore his blouse and trousers as they all stood knee-deep in the sea around the dead Ekhidna.

“Those are the sirens,” Yennefer whispered in an incredulous voice, “I didn’t know they could polymorph.”

“If a sentient monster can consciously harness chaos, they can,” Geralt murmured, “Dragons, Lamias, and Higher Vampires are famous for it, but I’ve never heard about sirens being able to.”

“Well, take note then. I’m sure your fellow Wolves would want to know.”

Geralt huffed at that, not taking his eyes off his bard.

The four stood vigil as the night fell, silent. As they did, Melusine’s body slowly drifted away, her scales gleaming under the light of the moon that steadily rose. When it reached its zenith, the Ekhidna was long gone.

Jaskier then began to sing his lullaby, warbling the slick, sharp words as the girls began to walk out toward the shore, which had receded far from them. Geralt watched as the sirens joined in, wading deeper and deeper into the water as they sang as one, bittersweet and lovely. When their heads disappeared under the water, Jaskier finished the verse by himself, the wind tousling his hair as he turned his back to the sea. Even from their distance, Geralt could see him wiping at his eyes.

When he arrived at the camp, his eyes were red and puffy, “Sorry to keep you waiting,” he croaked, plopping down in the grass.

Geralt took a while to reply, “You knew them all.”

“Yes,” he accepted Geralt’s waterskin, though his eyes didn’t leave the Witcher. They were still a smoldering, brimstone-flame blue that seemed to seethe in the half-light at the edge of the campfire. His body reeked of ocean, and his clothes were still half-plastered to his body. The wound in his gut was visible through a bloody tear in his shirt, and bore no sign of infection, “Though they didn’t recognize me at first.” he said with a smirk when he saw where Geralt was looking.

“How? I thought you said that the Ekhidna killed your father?”

Jaskier sighed, “She did. And it was horrifying. She wiped out the entire village. Looking for me. When she found me, she screamed and dragged me into the water. I was seven years old. Had no means of escape. But I didn’t drown,” he said, “I thought I did, I blacked out and everything. But…” his smile was bitter, “Turns out the man who I thought was my father actually kidnapped me.”

Shock turned Geralt’s inside liquid with heat.

“But,” he spluttered, “you can’t be. You traveled with me, a Witcher, for twenty years, singing...those were your sisters-” Geralt went still, “she was your mother. Jaskier-”

“She needed to go. Melusine slaughtered innocents for sport. The girls had little choice but to follow her. Or leave, like I did,” his eyes watched Geralt carefully, “But they had no desire to be amongst men-humans killed my fourth sister.”

The fire spat sparks as the two stared at each other. 

“Well, Witcher,” Jaskier’s eyes flashed in the dark, “Are you going to kill me?”

“Of course not!” Geralt rushed over to Jaskier as pulled him close. The bard stiffened as he approached, but didn’t fight back. As soon as Geralt’s arms wrapped around him, though, he softened, burying his face into the Witcher’s shoulder, “This is...a _lot,_ but you’re still you, Jaskier.”

The bard was sobbing. Geralt kissed the crown of his head and hushed him, rocking back and forth to offer some comfort. He then glared at Yennefer, who was smiling sweetly at them from across the fire, before running his hand affectionately through Jaskier’s salt-crusted hair.

“Sorry for stabbing you.” Jaskier sniffled.

A snort, “Vengeance for when I punched you in the cock.” The bard didn’t laugh at that, which initially worried Geralt until he looked at him and realized he had drifted off to sleep.

Geralt set Jaskier down as gently as he could, then looked up at Yennefer, who still wore a smirk.

“Not a single word,” he warned, “About  _ any  _ of this.”

“Of course not,” the sorceress purred mockingly. “We wouldn’t want the world to know that the mighty White Wolf of Rivia’s lover is a siren, now would we? People might think you have a  _ heart _ .”

“Or they’ll think I’m soft-minded, and hassle me even more.”

“Oh  _ Geralt. _ You  _ actually  _ love him. Well, I don’t exactly envy him.” Yennefer’s voice dripped with cynicism, “Though I will be very interested to hear what tales they tell of you two in ten year’s time.”


	10. Wine and Whispers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They return to Kerack. Yennefer meets Ciri. Jaskier slaps someone. Something is afoot.

Geralt burst into Jaskier’s quarters without knocking, eagerness winning out over manners. After a hard day on the Path, he had brought something he knew the bard would like. He hoped the gift would soothe his frazzled nerves-Jaskier had been very high-strung since they had been allowed to stay in Kaer Trolde, with blue bags beneath his eyes from lack of sleep and tremors in his hands.

The Witcher skidded to a halt in the foyer. Jaskier’s cap of brown hair under a rakish hat was bent close to Yennefer’s sleek, dark head.

Geralt’s face heated, and he made to back out of the door, but it was too late. Their two faces stared up at him with matching expressions of guilty astonishment. Geralt glimpsed a glint of glass disappearing into Jaskier’s velveteen pockets, but he glanced away before the bard could catch him staring.

“Sorry to barge in,” Geralt mumbled, “I didn’t know you had company.”

“Geralt?” Jaskier’s beautiful smile was both surprising and delightful. “Is that really you? I’d begun to worry that you went after the Kraken after all, you were gone so long. What did you kill?”

“Three Drowners and a particularly nasty Bruxa,” Geralt said, “It was hiding in a wine cellar, and the owners of the property paid with something you might like,” he held up a dusty bottle, “Temerian Dandelion-iced Wine. From Temeria.”

Jaskier grinned and crossed the room on poppy-clad legs to take the bottle. “‘Tis a fine gift for a good deed, my Witcher,” he said with a dramatic bow, taking Geralt’s hand. The feathers on his hat nearly brushed the ground.

“Bard. Stop.” Yennefer rolled her violet eyes, “The last thing Geralt needs is for your fawning to go to his head.”

“Oh?” Jaskier straightened with a wink. “And what could possibly be the issue with his head?”

“The problem,” sighed Yennefer, “is that no one else treats him like that. He’s going to start thinking others might tolerate his existence.”

Jaskier slapped a hand over his heart, “You wound me, fair lady! To think I merely  _ tolerate  _ this magnificent being?” He ambled over to the serving table and sloshed some of the pale wine into a glass before draining it in one long gulp. He then refilled his glass and poured one for Geralt and Yennefer before settling back on the chaise. “No saltwater in this,” he said happily as he sipped.

“I just spoke with the queen,” Geralt said, “We’ll be able to leave at our leisure-the first ship off to Kerack is to be launched tomorrow.”

“Good. I’ll bet Ciri is lonely.”

Yennefer tilted her head, “Who’s Ciri?”

Geralt fixed his bard with a pointed stare. “My child surprise.” He winced internally at Yennefer’s expression of shock, “I-uh-might have told the king that she was Jaskier’s daughter, though.”

“And you left her…all by herself?” 

“She’s safe”

Yennefer stood, “We’re going to Kerack. Now.”

“ _ Now? _ ” Jaskier rose an eyebrow, “But I thought you were out of chaos or something.” He jerked his head back as the sorceress opened a portal.

“Not out. Just a bit limited. Now get off those fine asses of yours and let’s see what mess you two made.”

Belohun had insisted there be a ball in their honor. “You saved our city, Witcher!” he said happily after receiving word of their return the next day, “We wouldn’t have made it long without your services. Let us celebrate with food, wine, and song tonight!

It was a stormy evening, and the rains bewitched the castle with a dark, sweet languor. Not that Geralt cared. He hated parties. 

Geralt trailed Ciri through the halls. The clouds had darkened steadily throughout the afternoon, thunder drumming outside and spikes of lightning bleaching the shadows. The torches spat sparks from their sconces as the two passed before walking through the heavy doors into a transformed atrium.

The glass ceiling arched high above, dark and blurry from the rain falling from the bruised sky. The air was thick as nectar and sweet as wine. A curved and coiling chandelier of antlers held thousands of candles. Sharply contrasted against the churning charcoal sky, King Belohun sat atop his gilded throne.

“Ah, Fiona!” Yennefer swooped upon Ciri, “You look absolutely  _ lovely _ , my dove!” 

The princess stared, and so did Geralt. Yennefer was wearing a black gown that fell snugly around her body until it billowed out around her legs, the satin smoothing from midnight at the hips to pale silvery blue at the hem. A grindingly narrow waist. An obscene plunge of the neckline, down past her navel. Bare shoulders. And jewels, a waterfall of silver and sea glass and diamond that cascaded from her throat down between her breasts.

Her perfectly lined eyes caught Geralt’s and she smiled brazenly, “Like what you see?” her violet eyes flashed with humor, “Your bard’s fashion sense is  _ extraordinary.  _ He picked out yours, too?”

“Is it that obvious?”

“Of course!” Jaskier’s voice warbled. Geralt turned to see him in deep teal finery stitched with gold and studded with coral gems, “If he had it his way he’d still be in his armor.” The bard had his lute resting easily in his hands and strummed a few fiery chords. “It’s high time you showed,” he raised his voice and strummed louder, “I was just about to tell your tales, Witcher!”

And so it went. Jaskier pranced about the Atrium, singing his outrageously inaccurate songs. Yennefer made Ciri introduce her and Geralt to the people of the court. The Witcher nodded and spoke as politely as possible, ignoring the curious glances and whispers following him around the room.

Finally, Yennefer pulled Geralt behind a gilt-lined pillar.

“I’m going to get us something to eat. Stay here.”

Geralt waited, taking everything in. Ciri had been whisked away by some young noble lord, and they were dancing. Her pale skin shone diamond-bright amid the crowd.

“A word, Geralt of Rivia.”

Ferrant de Lettenhove passed a wineglass into the Witcher’s hand. The liquid was sweet and cool, and he drank it gratefully. His throat was parched, and the air in the room seemed too thick to drag into his lungs.

“My cousin seems to be rather... _ lively _ of late.”

Geralt chuckled, “Jaskier? He’s always like that.”:

“Is he?” The steward’s nose wrinkled, “Julian is a much different man than I remember, though his appearance has barely changed since he left for Oxenfurt nigh thirty years past. I was just a boy when he departed, but now he could pass as my son.” His eyes followed the bard’s progress around the hall, “He hasn’t been cursed, has he?”

“Elder blood.” Geralt lied. “Direct descendants of elves have longer life spans than humans.”

“They also tend to look like elves,” Lettenhove said shrewdly, “You of all people should know that.”

“What do you want?” Geralt demanded.

The steward smiled at that, “Why, aren’t you bright for a sword-swinging thug? Right to the quick, I appreciate that,” a pause, “I need your help.”

“And you’re willing to use your cousin as blackmail fodder so I have no choice but to comply,” The Witcher growled, “Which-”

“Cousin!” 

Jaskier had waltzed over, his eyes gleaming as smiled at Lettenhove and Geralt.

“He’s not trying to talk you into some inane court intrigue, is he Geralt?”

The Witcher grinned as he looked at the steward, who had gone very still, “he was, actually.”

Jaskier laughed, and it was like sunlight on water. He took Geralt’s arm, and the Witcher hummed as they faced Lettenhove. “Darling cousin-mine,” Jaskier said cheerfully, “I’ve neglected to introduce my best friend. Geralt of Rivia. His trade is to protect the likes of you from things that would gladly string your organs up on a Yule Tree after forcefully inverting your skin and the like.” The bard yawned innocently, “Though I’ve known his long enough that he sometimes... _ emphasizes _ with his quarry. Some of the so-called ‘monsters’ he’s sent to hunt are just as self-aware as you or I, and fought out of self-defense. Like I’m about to do right now.”

He then slapped Lettenhove in the face. Geralt sucked on his teeth as the solid  _ smack _ echoed throughout the hall, drawing the eyes of nearly everyone. The steward spluttered, nearly fell, but caught himself against the pillar, hands clutched where there was sure to be a nasty bruise in the following days. 

“Don’t try to blackmail us, Ferrant.” Jaskier told him, his voice clear and baleful in the thick silence. Then he turned and stalked his way out of the room, heels clicking loudly on the marble. Everyone watched him go.

Geralt stood there awkwardly for a moment before following.

He really did hate parties.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Good news! Bad things are about to happen!  
> Also just hit 35 pages for this thing. Which is 65 pages in standard manuscript format. I'll probably aim for 300 pages in this work, so yeah. Good stuff.


	11. A Wolf on the Path

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jaskier is reminded that Witchers aren't typically a big fan of his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Return to the Path! This is also the longest fight scene I've written so far, so enjoy!

They had found themselves on the Path again, traveling east toward an inland village on the border of the Brokilon forest, where there was said to be a Vypper lurking about. The snake-like creatures had nasty, saber-like fangs and could spit burning poison. It had already killed several sheep and burned a villager with its acid, so Geralt had been summoned to deal with it.

It was a hot morning, the sky clear save for a few clouds. He and Jaskier lounged around their fire, eating breakfast before they rode on toward the village for the contract. Geralt leaned back on his elbows and let the light stroke his face. The air was redolent with honeysuckle and lavender. A bee buzzed around the Witcher’s head, mistaking the brightness of his hair for flowers. 

He closed his eyes, humming contently. He then dozed off happily...

And woke up to a deep, seething hiss and loud swearing. Jaskier was nowhere to be seen, but the delicate sound of his rapier ringing against steel could be heard nearby. Geralt was on his feet in an instant, sword in hand and dashing toward where he found the bard fighting a man in black leather armor. Keening horror unfurled wings inside his gut as he recognized the twin scars running down the side of the man’s face and the flashing yellow eyes.

_ Fuck.  _ Geralt leapt forward, barreling into the other Witcher. They went sprawling through the dirt. Lambert surged upward to strike Geralt, but he caught the dark-haired man by his wrists, “ _ Enough! _ It’s okay, Lambert. It’s okay.”

“That fucker is  _ not human! _ ” Lambert snarled. 

“I know. Lambert, this is Jaskier.”

Lambert hesitated, then lowered his sword, glaring at the bard, “He’s a fast little shit. What are you? Vampire? Succubus?”

“I would be an incubi, thank you very much. But no. It’s really not your business.”

“I am  _ Witcher! _ It kind of  _ is,  _ actually.”

Jaskier sighed at that. As Geralt looked over, he noticed the bard was holding his arm, “Are you hurt?”

“It’s just a scratch,” Jaskier told him. Pale smoke roiled out from between his fingers, and his face tightened a fraction, “A silver scratch.” he amended. Geralt closed the distance between them to examine the wound and was relieved to see that it was shallow. He knew it was causing Jaskier more pain than he’d admit, however, “It’s  _ fine. _ ”

“I know. But still,” The Witcher looked around, then grunted as he spotted a cluster of scarlet flowers climbing up the trunk of a tree. He walked over and plucked a couple of their petals off, “Conynhaela,” he explained to Jaskier, offering them to him, “It’ll take the edge off.”

“My white wolf. So sweet.” Jaskier swallowed the herbs dry and pecked Geralt on the cheek. Lambert made a loud noise in the back of his throat.

“Are you fucking that  _ thing? _ ”

“His name is Jaskier, and as of yet, no,” the words were blunt, “We’re on our way to take care of a vypper. Wanna tag along?”

Lambert stared at him and Jaskier in turn. Then he sighed.

“Every time. Every time I run into you on the Path it’s  _ something _ . Why the fuck not?”

Vyppers were nasty creatures that liked to make their home in the same swamps that kikimores lurked in. Massive green-brown serpents with scaly legs, they floated below the surface, with only the tops of their heads visible, so that they looked like mossy logs. They’d wait for unlucky prey to come within their reach, and they’d proceed to either drown, strangle, or poison them before tearing them apart and swallowing the pieces. Most of the time they lived far away from civilization, but interactions between them and humans often ended badly for the humans.

They rode into the village and tethered their horses at the inn before they were directed to a field. A stream gurgled sluggishly behind a copse of trees, leading toward a swamp in the distance. It’s bare trees reached up toward the sky like bleached, crooked bones. 

“Well, isn’t this pleasant scenery,” Jaskier commented as they approached. Fog sat sullenly over the surface of the stagnant waters, which were perfectly still.

“You know the rules,” Geralt told him, “Stay back and stay alert.”

The two Witchers then pressed closer toward where the stream met the swamp, “You let him  _ watch _ ?” Lambert said incredulously.

“Only when it’s relatively safe. Vyppers have a fast strike but don’t chase well. He can run off if need be.” The Witcher paused before some tracks, “we’re in the right place, though. This one’s pretty old, which means that it’s even slower.”

“But stronger,” Lambert added.

“We’re not wrestling it.” before them, the water bubbled, “Just duck when it strikes and stab up through the bottom of its jaw. If it spits, dodge.”

“I’m not an idiot, Geralt. Here it- _ fuck!” _

It was not the Vypper than rose from the water, but a kikimora, and an enormous one at that, it’s ugly face as tall as Geralt’s torso. It made its hoarse screaming noise and advanced forward, it’s razored forelimbs raised to strike. 

Lambert and Geralt hacked at it with their swords, and the beast made a horrible gurgling noise as their blades bit into its tough hide. It’s maw opened as it screamed at them, and then it shrieked as a mottled, muscular body slammed into it.

The Vypper. Its scales were faded and eyes filmy, but it sank its fangs into the kikimora, whipping its coils around the monster. The water boiled with its body, its tail hurtling through the air faster than the Witcher’s could dodge and hitting them both solidly, sending them flying.

He’d been through worse, but it still hurt like hell. Geralt grunted as his shoulder clipped a tree trunk. Distantly, he heard Jaskier shout something, followed by a hideous cracking noise behind him. He climbed to his feet gingerly to see that the Vyyper had crushed the kikimora, it’s soupy black insides leaking from it’s cracked exoskeleton. The serpent-like beast then raised its wedge-shaped head toward where Lambert lay groaning in the dirt.

Geralt raised his sword and yelled incoherently to draw the monster’s attention. It first ignored him, moving toward Lambert, it’s jaws parting as it prepared to snap him up whole. Then Geralt ran up and stabbed it in the side. It was about as effective as a bee sting, but it got the creature’s attention. Its massive head turned toward the Witcher, and he leaped out of the way as its jaws rushed toward him, snapping the air and snarling as it turned toward Geralt, hissing menacingly and baring its rows of hooked teeth dripping with poison.

The perfect target. Geralt whipped out a dagger and hurled it. The blade winked as it passed between the monster’s teeth and found it home in the back of its throat. The Vypper screamed, thrashing its head back and forth. Its poison dripped from its jaws, sizzling when it hit the ground. Geralt grunted in pain as he was splattered, the liquid eating through his clothes singing his skin.

The Vypper was enraged. It snapped at Geralt again, this time more wildly. Which was its fatal mistake. All Geralt had to do was step aside and hold his sword out. It met the corner of the serpent’s mouth and ripped all the way down to its shoulder. Blood burst forth, showering the Witcher in gore as the Vypper landed heavily on the ground and writhed for a few moments, the grass withering away as its frothing mouth worked until it finally stilled.

Geralt stood there for a moment before wiping his sword in the grass and stalking up to Lambert. The other Witcher looked dazed, blood smeared on his temple. Probably hit his head.

“Can you walk?” Geralt asked him.

Lambert stumbled to his feet, “Yeah. I’ll live.” he looked at the dead Vypper, “Too big to bring its head.”

“I’ll cut out its heart. Not particularly worried about it.” He watched as Jaskier led Roach and Lambert’s horse toward them, “Jaskier’ll take a look at you. He’s patched me up for twenty years.”

The bard examined Lambert’s head wound with practiced eyes as Geralt busied himself with removing the Vypper’s heart. It was enormous, easily three times as large as the Witcher’s head, and weighed as much as a beer keg. Instead of attaching it to the hook at his hip, Geralt fetched a densely woven burlap sack from Roach’s saddle and dumped it inside.

“You’ll be okay,” Jaskier told Lambert, “You Witcher’s are made of sturdy stuff, I’ll give you that. The cut looks like it’ll need stitches, though.”

“Fuck off, Bruxa.”

“Try again! I can either stitch or cauterize it, but it’ll be a nasty-looking scar if you don’t get it cleaned up.” 

“I don’t trust you.” Lambert said stubbornly, “You could be controlling Geralt right now, or be feeding off of his life force, or-”

“He’s  _ not _ , Lambert. Look at my medallion,” Geralt held it out, where it hung completely inanimate, “He’s a siren, and you know we’re immune to their songs. Anyway, it doesn’t matter right now. All I want is to get paid and have a bath and some sleep. Drinks on me, Lam?”

At first, it looked like the other Witcher would refuse. He certainly hesitated. Ran a hand through his dark hair as he eyed Jaskier suspiciously. 

“Fine. But if your little siren tries to enchant me with his pretty boy voice, I’ll break his neck.”

“Call me a pretty boy again and I’ll slit your throat and make you eat the knife.” Jaskier said breezily as he hopped onto Roach’s back, “Now come on. I think I saw a pretty girl you could be rude to while I write a new song and get gloriously drunk in the process.”


	12. Far from the Shallows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fluff and angst and fluff and terrible news.

The innkeep took one look at Geralt and told him to bathe in the pond behind the tavern. He couldn’t exactly blame the man, since he was covered in gore and likely smelled like the insides of a Vypper. He did, however, take the time to show the group of peasants who hired him the Vypper’s heart, which their tired faces stretched into smiles at the sight of, and tossed half their gold to Lambert while Jaskier started a boisterous round of ‘Toss a Coin.’

Geralt then picked his way over to the pond, which was a secluded little thing. Shallow and warm, the waters only rising to his hips as he waded into it and began to rise the muck off of his body.

“What a lovely sight.”

Jaskier leaned against one of the trees. He caught Geralt’s gaze and grinned, flourishing a brush and a bar of soap. He beckoned the Witcher to come close, then began to gently wash his shoulders. 

“You’re still  _ much _ too thin, Geralt. Too many potions. Not enough pancakes.”

“I hope they put that on my tombstone.”

Jaskier lightly smacked Geralt with his brush, “Oh come now, don’t say things like that. I know what you do is dangerous, but you always bounce back.” He gently prodded a spot of raw skin where the Vypper’s poison had burned Geralt. When the Witcher gave no indication that it hurt, he proceeded, “Now there’s something I wanted to talk about.”

Geralt stiffened.

“What are we to each other, Geralt. I know we kissed, but that was before…,” he paused, “You say we’re friends. Does that mean it’s platonic? It’s fine, but when Lambert asked-” The bard made a surprised noise as Geralt turned around and caught his wrist. 

“Are you joking?” Even in the deep shade of trees, his eyes gleamed a deep gold. “Don’t you remember what I said to you that day on Skellige? I vow that I will be yours from this day to the end of our days. That might be tomorrow, it might be hundreds of years from now but it doesn’t matter so long as you’re by my side.”

Geralt didn’t know who leaned in. Maybe both of them did. But they crashed together, and then they were kissing.

Jaskier’s mouth moved against his, hot and restless as he clawed his back to pull him closer. Geralt was soaking wet, but the bard didn’t seem to mind-the Witcher’s skin was hot wherever he could touch it. When Geralt’s huge hands found his waist, Jaskier gasped into his mouth.

Geralt fumbled at the fastenings of the bard’s clothes, and Jaskier reached down to help. When they leaned back to each other, the expanse of his bare skin stunned Geralt, and his hands slid up his perfect sides, over the wings of his shoulder blades, as if he were sculpting the bard with the touch of his palms and fingers. 

Jaskier shuddered. Geralt’s lips trailed away from his mouth down toward his jaw, but then he heard Jaskier whimper in pain and was shoved away.

“What’s wrong?”

The bard clawed at his chest, his face white as he gasped. Underneath his shaking fingers, the skin was bright red and steaming. Geralt pried his hands away to see the jagged shape of his medallion had burned into Jaskier’s skin. Around the area, Geralt could see a sheen of tiny, translucent scales slowly spreading outward. 

“ _ Jaskier! _ ”

The screech that came out of his lips as Geralt pulled him into the water was raw and earsplitting, so loud that the Witcher, unsure of what to do, pushed his head underwater. The sound immediately diminished, rippling under the surface as a distant wailing that went on for a few moments before ceasing.

Geralt let him up. Jaskier surfaced with a choking gasp, trembling from head to toe. His eyes were bright and dark all at once, glowing like the famous night waves of the Southern Isles. He weakly grabbed at Geralt’s chest, his face twisted with panic. The same fear was mirrored in the Witcher’s face as Jaskier tried to draw in a breath to speak and his chest spasmed, water leaking out of his mouth. It was like Jaskier was drowning, but he’d only been under for moments, and he was a siren, he couldn’t-

_ Oh.  _

“I’m putting you under again,” Geralt told him. Jaskier’s eyes widened as his head was pressed beneath the surface.

It was horrible to watch. The bard thrashed under Geralt’s hold, screaming first in panic, then in agony, the sound tinny and faint as a steady stream of bubbles rose to the surface. His bones creaked and groaned as his spine elongated, spurs of bone bursting from his back with small plumes of blood. Limbs budded from his hips before Geralt’s eyes, stretching into long, wing-like fins that beat the silt at the bottom, obscuring him. When it settled, Jaskier had grown too strong for Geralt to hold.

For the second time that day, Geralt got thrown. He was launched upward into the air and landed with a loud splash by the bank. The water and silt cushioned his fall thankfully, and he clumsily climbed to his feet to see that Jaskier had crawled to the other side of the pond, and was curled up in the shallows, gasping in shallow, fast breaths. “Fuck.”

Geralt carefully approached, swinging his medallion around so that it nestled between his shoulder blades. He could hear how fast Jaskier’s heart was fluttering and dropped to his knees. He reached a hand out, then hesitated. 

“Jask?” Geralt whispered. 

“Geralt,” the bard choked. His voice was hoarse and sounded thick with tears, “ _ hurts _ .”

This time Geralt scooped him up and held him close. There was anguish in his eyes, “I am so sorry,” his voice cracked, “This...fuck. I didn’t know-”

“Don’t apologize.” Jaskier’s breath was ragged as he clung to the Witcher, “It’s not your fault. Do you...understand that?”   


Geralt held him tight, pulled him into the warmth of his body so he might feel some comfort as he cried. The Witcher repeated it in whispers and gentle kisses, “ _ I’m sorry. This won’t happen again. I love you. I love you, Jaskier.” _

After some time, he seemed to cry himself out. He seemed to become aware of Geralt’s kisses and began to return them. The water seemed to make him heal faster, as the wolf-shaped burn mark on his chest was now a pale silvery pink, “I think your medallion doesn't like shapeshifters,” Jaskier finally said. 

Geralt looked at him, trailing from his face down toward where his legs had fused into his long, muscular tail. The scales took on a bright gold color at the hips and deepened to rich red toward the end of his tail, where a nasty barb protruded above the crimson of his fins. “What gave it away?” he asked sarcastically. Then he became concerned, “You’ll be able to turn back, right?”

“Probably? This is the first time this has happened since I was a boy, and that time was induced by my drowning, not some magic silver necklace. But it might have to wait a few hours. I’m exhausted and famished”

Lambert chose that opportune moment to appear. He walked through the bushes, then froze at the scene before him. Geralt was vividly reminded that he was very naked in the pond and cuddling a siren.

The other Witcher only rolled his eyes, “you mean to tell me that the screams of some damned soul that interrupted my bath was just you fucking with your pet monster?”

“I  _ wish _ ” Jaskier sighed, “I think we were getting to that part before Geralt’s medallion decided it didn’t like the fact that I had legs.” With one smooth movement, he slid from Geralt's arms and swam over to where his purse sat on the bank. Propping himself up with his wings, he rifled through his bags until he pulled out a heel of bread and eagerly tore into it. 

Geralt climbed out of the pond and snatched up his trousers, “Jaskier needs to rest before he can change back. It’ll be a few hours, so we’ll meet you up there.”

“Oh no,” Lambert smirked. “No, there’s something else I have to tell you, Geralt. A contract. They’re offering a handsome sum to whoever finds this nobleman from Kerack. Some Oxenfurt minstrel with a bastard’s name. Yulio or something.”

“Julian Pankratz?” Jaskier offered.

“That’s it! You know ‘im?” The Witcher brightened.

“Of course I know him, he’s me! Belohun  _ knows  _ I’m out here on the Path. Why...did something happen?”

Lambert stared at the bard, “Yeah. The-uh-parliament wants you back right quick. Belohun’s dead, and he’s named you as his successor.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that's Part One! You guys won't be seeing me for a bit, but I'll still be working on this. Add me on Instagram @aubraucity and Snapchat @aux.hep!


	13. The Free Minded People

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Legal shenanigans, politics, and a curious present.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Consider this my holiday gift to you guys!

“I don’t want it.”

The parliament room was a circular chamber with a mosaic dome decorated with constellations. A round marble table inlaid with the Kerack crest-a simple dolphin breaching-stood in the center of the chamber. Seated there were three men, once who was tall and wiry, the other two were nearly identical twins, broad and stout; a woman with thin lips, narrow eyes and tattooed cheeks; and a second woman with an elaborate pile of silver hair above a round face and body.

Jaskier had seated himself in the middle of a swath of empty chairs, and Geralt stood directly behind him; he could feel the Witcher’s warm breath on the top of his head. They had initially tried to have Geralt leave, but Jaskier had insisted he stay.

A current of unease ran through the room. The tattooed women sat straighter, hands clasped before her, while the twins exchanged dark glances, and the gray lady smiled, her dagger hilt jiggling beneath her chest.

“You don’t want it?” One of the council members echoed incredulously.

“That’s what I said. I’ve never had any experience in leading before, unless you count the Verdish Skirmishes-”

“Of course we count those! You were Belohun’s right-hand in those battles! They called you-”

“I know what they called me. But that doesn’t make me fit to rule.” Jaskier sat back in his chair, “I am but a simple bard now. My place is amongst all people, not confined within the walls and rules of this court.” he sighed dramatically, “Besides, I highly doubt that the people of Kerack would wish for a king who’s er... _.partnered _ with a Witcher.”

Five pairs of eyes widened at the statement, then flew to Geralt, who gazed at them calmly until one by one they dropped their stares. 

“Admittedly,” the tall wiry man coughed awkwardly, “It’s not traditional, but you’re forgetting that this is Kerack, a nation built with...free-minded folk. Belohun himself had many known paramours, and-”

“Paramours.” Geralt interrupted. Everyone stiffened except for Jaskier, who looked up at him with an adoring expression, “Did...any of these relations result in....heirs?”

“Four legitimate ones from his marriages, actually. One exiled, one a drunk, and two tried to stage a coup a few years back when he was making plans to marry a maiden named Ildiko Breckl. It failed, of course, and the two married but were estranged within a fortnight. None of them fit choices, as you could imagine.”

The bard made a sound of frustration, and Geralt dropped a hand, which he held onto tightly. “You still don’t want me as your king. I beg your pardon, but you don’t know who I am. Not really. I might have grown up in these halls, but that was almost three decades ago. And I have a lot of Elder blood, which means I will outlive you, and your children and theirs. That’s not... _ good _ for a kingdom. You need someone with experience around a ruler, and noble…” his hand slackened in Geralt’s, “My lords. Would you mind stepping outside for a moment?”

The parliament filed out silently, and Jaskier stood.

“What is it?” Geralt watched his bard’s hands flutter, a habit he tended to do when he was thinking much too quickly.

“Ciri.”

“ _What?_ _No._ ”

“Why not?” Jaskier whipped around to face him, “She’s perfect for it. She loves it here, she grew up under the tutelage and watchful eyes of Calanthe, and has come to know and emphasize with the people beneath her station.”

“She’s too young and naive.”

“Which is  _ why _ she’ll have a council of people older and wiser, Geralt. As well as highly trained guards sworn to defend her with their lives. Kerack also can’t be overthrown, because it has trade deals with all of the other Northern Kingdoms, and to do so would be to declare war on each one. Nilfgaard wouldn’t stand a chance if everyone united against them. Worst case-scenario, Kerack gets annexed by Nilfgaard and becomes a city. Ciri would lose her crown, but likely keep her position and more importantly, her life.”

“ _ Hmm. _ ” Geralt scowled, “I still don’t like it. What if they find out who she is?”

Jaskier pursed his lips, lost in thought for a moment. Then, his voice dropped to barely above a whisper. 

“Cirilla’s your child surprise, which is as legally binding in Nilfgaard as it is here. So technically she’s your daughter. And...if we-er, you and I... _ married _ or something, then she’d be my daughter by law, and thus the perfectly valid heir to Kerack’s throne.”

Geralt opened his mouth, then closed it. He grimaced.

“That actually might not be a bad idea,” he muttered, “Though...marriage?” The word was foreign on the Witcher’s tongue. “You would do that for Ciri?”

“Well, of _course_ it has certain perks for me,” Jaskier dropped a slow wink, “and hopefully for you as well. But essentially, yes, it would ensure her safety above all else.”

“Right. So, what are we going to tell these idiots?”

“They’re loyal to Kerack and the throne. Which I technically occupy right now. It’s treason to disclose what is discussed in these chambers, and they know that.” he walked over the doors and threw them open.

“My friends!” He grinned once everyone was seated, “Before I tell you something you’ll be  _ delighted  _ to hear, may I first have you ensure my darling Witcher that he won’t get to forcefully turn you inside out for repeating, implying, or communicating in any form or medium what I’m about to disclose to you?”

The parliament stared at him in disbelief and terror, but gave their word.

“Excellent! Now, let me start off with a bit of a story so we all have a shared understanding of the circumstances. As with most of my tales, it starts with Geralt killing something.”

Funerals in Kerack were some of the most unusual on the Continent. It was largely because it depended on the people who attended and how they collectively decided to express their farewells to the deceased. Belohun’s father Omryk was said to have had a festival and tourney in his honor that lasted for a week.

Belohun’s funeral was more formal, a feast to celebrate the king that had held Kerack steady throughout his reign. The finest of foods were served in the great hall, and the common folk outside had plentiful bread, stew and wine served to them from various spots throughout the city. 

Jaskier had burst into Geralt’s chambers at noon, followed by a half-dozen handmaidens, and thrown open his curtains. The disorienting splash of light made Geralt think he was on the Path, the sun peering between the wavering limbs of a tree, but then Jaskier’s voice chimed brightly through the room, and he remembered. 

“How are you still  _ alive? _ ” Jaskier crawled up next to him and kissed his cheek, “The assassins I hired must have failed me. Consider yourself lucky!!” He teased.

“Lucky me,” Geralt murmured sarcastically. He heard his bard gasp melodramatically, and opened his eyes to see the women moving around his room with practiced efficiency, “Who are they?”

“My personal staff,” Jaskier replied happily, “These ladies have a much better touch with coordinating wardrobes than whoever decided that these  _ rags _ ,” he brushed the simple linen undershirt the Witcher wore playfully, “Were acceptable!”

Geralt grunted and sat up, “sheets were too nice for me to sleep naked.” He caught more than one of the women staring at his bare arms, which were of course riddled with a battlefield of scars, and fought the strange, sudden urge to hide them. He shoved the feeling away and made himself focus on the garments they had draped over a table. “Oh  _ fuck  _ no, Jaskier,” He said.

“Oh, come  _ on _ ,” Jaskier took his hand and dragged him out of bed, holding up the outfit, which was ornate and dark burgundy, gleaming with metallic bluish undertones, “You’ll look absolutely lovely once we have a go at your hair!”

And thus it began. The woman swarmed Geralt, helping him into the finery, fastening hooks and smoothing and straightening bits that were already smooth and straight. Several yanked and braided Geralt's hair, muttering darkly at its range of white and silvers and grays and coarse texture and dullness. 

Nonetheless, when it finally ended and Jaskier dragged him in front of a mirror, Geralt saw that they had done their job well. The clothes shimmered deep purple and were utterly simple in design, yet so well cut and fitted that Geralt felt slightly naked. And his hair. He didn’t understand what they had done to it, but the end result was this dignified wildness that was both startling and striking against his face. He usually didn’t give two shits about his appearance, but he had to admit he looked-

“Gorgeous!” Jaskier said happily. He had changed into his outfit, which was ornate and a rich blue that matched his eyes, “Though I personally prefer you in your armor. Or,” his fingers walked up Geralt arm, “Out of your armor.”

“Still can’t believe any of this.”

“I know, this...everything...has all happened so fast. If you don’t want to go through with it, just say so, and-”

Geralt kissed him, a chaste peck on the lips, but it was enough to placate Jaskier, who made that adorable happy noise in the back of his throat. Geralt wanted to spend the rest of the day seeing what other noises he could elicit from the bard, but it would have to wait.

Somewhere over on the other side of the chamber, Geralt heard the handmaidens speaking to each other in hushed tones and casting the two sidelong glances as they went about their duties. He looked at them pointedly as he pulled away from Jaskier, “We have an audience,” Geralt told his bard.

“Good. You know how much I like attention,” Jaskier laughed and shooed the servants away, “And I expect to be  _ showered _ with it after we get this all done and over with. In fact,” he ambled over to the table and picked up a satin-wrapped box, “This can serve as a reminder,” he opened it to reveal an elegant glass instrument, round-edged and smooth and surprisingly warm to the touch, “I take it you are familiar with how this works?” Geralt grunted hoarsely in reply, and the bard grinned before slipping away like an intoxicating dream, leaving nothing behind but his smell of chamomile and seawater and the sparkling glass knob winking moodily in the Witcher’s hands. 

He would most  _ definitely _ not forget.

An amphitheater had been built into the side of Kerack’s hill, and was currently full of a babble of voices discussing the funeral that had just occurred.

The ceremony itself had been somber. Priests said their words over Belohun’s body. A small ship coated in pitch set out to sea. Jaskier and several others stood on the shore with longbows, and sent flaming arrows arcing through the sky in a single volley that looked like a pack of shooting stars descending down toward the sea. The ship blazed for several minutes before sinking under. 

Jaskier then began to sing. There was no magic to it, and it was the same lullaby he had said farewell to his sisters with, cool and desolate and sharp like the stars reflected atop the heaving surface of the sea. Geralt had seen many of the onlookers swiping at their dampened cheeks as Jaskier returned to his side and buried his head into the Witcher’s shoulder.

Jaskier grieved intensely, but never for too long. “People die every day. This time it was just someone I knew personally. You say goodbye, but unless you want to join them, you move on when it’s all said and done,” he had told Geralt many years prior upon learning that his mentor at Oxenfurt had died. 

It took several minutes for the amphitheater to fill. Then Ferrant de Lettenhove stepped up onto the podium, “People of Kerack, we last stood here as an assembly at Osmyk’s death. His successor, Belohun, did what was needed to help our kingdom flourish over the years. He won many battles against superior forces. He nearly killed the Verdish General, leaving a scar to show the world so. And of course, he welcomed the Witcher Geralt of Rivia into our halls, who restored Skellige’s ability to trade and saved both of our nations from hardship. However, a new leader is needed, one that will continue these prosperous times. Through the law of inheritance and succession, King Belohun selected his brother, Julian Pankratz, to rule.”

A ripple of surprise went through the crowd as Jaskier approached the podium. His gaze swept over the audience, “People of Kerack!”

Silence.

“Some of you know me as Bladesinger, who fought alongside my brother in the Skirmishes. Some of you know me as the ward of Osmyk, who was found on the rocks of the shore and left for Oxenfurt shortly after the Verdans were eradicated from our lands. I am but a bard, with little experience of ruling. But,” he beamed at the crowd, “Destiny smiles upon us all! Geralt, can you come up here, please?”

  
Geralt sensed confusion rush through the listeners as he stepped up toward his bard, who smiled sweetly at him and took him gently by his hands.

“I decided to accompany Geralt on a whim,” he said, his voice splitting through the air, “I was a bard, I sang of people’s adventures and heroism. And who has more adventures than a Witcher? He was, as you all could imagine, quite blunt and altogether annoyed with my being until I wrote up my first song about our encounter with the elf Filavandrel. Then he tolerated me. And then, after many years, we became friends, and then…” Jaksier took another deep breath, and comprehension suddenly rose through the audience, who broke out into cheers and sounds of approval. 

“I was never meant to rule. As I said, I know next to nothing about it all. But there is someone who does. Years ago, my Geralt saved a noble's life, and the lord insisted that he be rewarded. Unsure of what to ask for, this Witcher claimed the Law of Surprise and ended up with charming Lady Fiona as his legal daughter. By wedding my beloved, she becomes the heir to Kerack’s throne, which I will concede to her with my vows. I, with the Parliament, have decided this by her merit as a noble and her knowledge of diplomacy and leadership, and of course with the blessing of her guardian and my betrothed. I ask you now, people of Kerack: have we chosen well?”

The roar was overwhelming,  _ “Yes!” _

“Then we'll begin with the preparations! But first, let us all celebrate the memory of the one who made this possible. May the city echo with toasts in honor of my brother, and may destiny continue to smile upon us all!”


	14. Breath of Fresh Air

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt and Jaskier steal some time away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a filler chapter. Suffer in silence.   
> Also I'm back. Hello.

“You know, I’ve never seen you duel before.”

The day was hot and sultry. They sat in the gardens behind the castle, stretched out in a clearing surrounded by brambly hedges to avoid prying eyes.

Jaskier sighed happily as he laid on the blanket, quill in hand as he gleefully scratched in his notebook and hummed to himself. Geralt had leaned up against a tree next to him, polishing his swords and allowing himself to relax after another successful hunt. A summerwine sat open between them, next to Jaskier’s lute and his crown, a simple circlet of silver that never seemed to sit right on his head.

Geralt looked up at him and grunted. “You’ve seen me fight plenty of times.”

“Not against other people. Not the  _ Danse de la Mor, _ ” He spoke in the fluted tongue of Elder Speech, which Geralt was getting better at understanding thanks to Vesemir’s lessons and his time around Jaskier. 

“I try not to fight people. They die easily.”

“Hence why it’s called the  _ Dance of Death,  _ darling.” Jaskier sat up and promptly swung himself onto Geralt’s lap. His hands found the Witcher’s hair and began playing with it. Geralt brushed his lips against Jaskiers’. The bard grinned under the kiss and nipped at his bottom lip, tugging it cheekily. The feeling sent a shock of desire through Geralt’s gut, so strong that he closed his eyes and sighed. When he opened them, he found Jaskier studying his face with adoration. 

“Hmm,” Geralt leaned in and rested his face into the bard’s velvet-clad shoulder. “I thought we agreed. No pet names.”

Jaskier was slender, but he was strong. Locking his legs around the Witcher’s, he rolled over, pulling Geralt with him until they laid side by side in the grass.

“Do you want me to apologize?”

Geralt hummed, his eyes fluttering, “Never.”

They had not, in fact, laid with each other. Not yet. The coronation three days earlier was a lavish event, and by the time it was over, both bard and Witcher were so drunk that they had fallen straight asleep. Geralt had woken up needy, but Jaskier had already left to attend to some royal duty. 

Unfortunately for Geralt, Jaskier wasn’t in the mood for that kind of sparring that afternoon. After kissing a few more times, the bard bounced up to his feet and went over to his bag. He unsheathed his rapier and grinned roguishly at Geralt as he slid into a fighting stance.

Geralt reluctantly stood and readied his steel, “you’re sure you want to do this?”

“Why not? Witcher’s need to keep their skills sharp, so I’ve heard.” With this, Jaskier jumped forward, a blur of motion. Geralt reflexively parried the attack, and their swords met with a shower of sparks. Jaskier grinned and whipped to the side to strike at his ribs. The parry nearly missed and Geralt backpedaled frantically, stunned by the bard’s ferocity and speed.

They struggled back and forth, trying to batter each other down. Geralt’s swings were stronger, but Jaskier was faster. After a particularly intense series of blows, the bard laughed. Not only was it impossible for either of them to gain an advantage, but they were so evenly matched that they were tiring at the same rate. 

It  _ was  _ a dance. Their blades sang in the air, punctuated by a steady beat as they clashed. Their bodies linked and separated as their swords flashed in the summer sun. At times they nearly touched, taut skin inches away, but then momentum would whirl them apart, only to join again. Their forms wove together like the waterspouts they had spotted on their journey to Skellige, smooth and sinuous.

Finally, Jaskier called, “Enough!” and Geralt stopped mid blow and sat heavily on the grass. Jaskier staggered to the ground as well, his chest heaving.

Around them, the clearing erupted with noise. Both Jaskier and Geralt looked up in shock to see that their fighting had drawn a crowd, which cheered raucously at them. Most of them were guardsmen, who Jaskier looked at pointedly before they dispersed back to their stations. 

One person, however, did not leave. Cirilla was staring at them both, “Half the castle thought we were under attack.” She told them, “But Lord Lettenhove said you two were fighting.”

“Well, he was right. But it was just for fun,” Jaskier told her. He then took a swig of wine, then suddenly sighed, “I almost forgot. I’m to dine in the  _ thrilling _ company of my council tonight to discuss the logistics of everything” he waved his hands in the air, “I think you should join me, Fiona. Get accustomed to sitting there with a half-vacant expression as they talk about taxes and all of that.”

Ciri did not look thrilled, “There was something else, too.”

“Hm?” Geralt asked.

“The sorceress Yennefer instructed me to tell you she had the unicorn, whatever that means.” When Geralt didn’t reply, the princess took her leave.

“Unicorn?” Jaskier raised an eyebrow.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys! If you're reading this, I just hope that you're enjoying what there is so far! This is only the first chapter, and I'll make sure to post somewhat regularly. This might be long, though. Just a warning.


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